


Ruins

by luzial



Series: Ruins [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Book: Dragon Age - The Masked Empire, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Thedas, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Trespasser Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 82,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5099036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luzial/pseuds/luzial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More than 20 years after the Exalted Council, Thedas is in ruins. Finally, a hardened and desperate Lavellan conjures a dangerous spell that has the power to stop the Dread Wolf once and for all. But when plans suddenly change, Lavellan and Solas find themselves transported back to when everything began - one year before Corypheous opens the breach - and given "one last chance" to set things right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Control

How many curses had they inadvertently laid upon themselves over the years, she wondered.

_Dirthara-ma._

_In another world._

_Ar lasa mala revas._

_I will never forget you._

That last one at least he’d brought upon himself.

She sighed and leaned against the high back of her chair.

“Second thoughts?” Dorian asked her from across the table. His hair was grey and shining, but he was handsome as ever and just as vain. Tonight his tone was airy, but she had known him long enough to see past it.

“No,” she answered truthfully. “I’ve never had much time for them.”

“This will work,” he assured her.

“I know,” she nodded. She had made certain of it.

She gazed up at her friend as he twirled the small amulet between his fingers. It looked almost the same as the one Alexius had used all those years ago - a green cube that shone brilliantly in the candlelight of her Kirkwall manor.

They had seen so much since then, she and the magister. Somehow they had lived through two Blights in the last twenty years, which was more than could be said for the bulk of the population of Thedas. She couldn’t even count the number of rebellions, assassination attempts, and coup d’etats they had survived, nor did she particularly understand why they had been spared when so many of the others had not.

The world was in ruins. Perhaps not literal ruins, yet - though so many cities had fallen during the last Blight that it was hard to say. Two Blights in an age had devastated the weakened Grey Wardens. Three meant there was nothing left of the heroic order. In a final assault, the last of the Wardens defeated the archdemon and ended the Blight. If the stories were to be believed and this demon had been the last of them, there would be no others. But she had seen with her own eyes the Tevinter texts that hinted at the existence of another, and she had heard the rumblings from the Anderfels.

Not that it mattered anymore. There were more darkspawn than there were living humans, elves, dwarves, and qunari combined.

Thedas would not survive, regardless of whether another Blight came. The chaos was absolute. The destruction was irreversible. She hardly knew why any of it was worth the fight, now. Solas would have infinitely fewer people to destroy than he would have twenty years ago. Yet she had never stopped fighting him.

He had appeared in all the wrong places at the worst possible times, sowing discord and rebellion when the need for cooperation and forgiveness was most desperate. It had been so long, so very long, since she last spoke to him that she could hardly pretend to understand his motivations. But were she to hazard a guess, as she often did when melancholy overtook her and she confided in Dorian, she believed Solas had decided to merely fuel a raging fire until it burnt down the forest. Why bother with the emotional and logistical toll of large-scale destruction when a few well-placed bits of kindling could do all the hard work for you?

Immortality had afforded him luxuries she did not have.

Quietly, she had engaged him in a battle of subterfuge and increasingly dangerous magic. For his part, he had been content to wait her out - to wait for her to die, she sometimes imagined. Most days they maintained a fragile stalemate as they worked in shadows to outmaneuver one another. It had all seemed much simpler when Leliana still lived.

Two Divines murdered in an age. No wonder the Chantry had fallen so easily. No wonder everything had fallen so easily.

“Do you still love him?” Dorian would ask her from time to time, when there had been enough wine or she seemed too far away. He asked her that night, of course.

She always laughed at this, and she laughed again. Then she answered as she always did.

“You should sooner ask me whether I still have two legs,” she held up one foot and then the other in demonstration. “Or my remaining hand,” she picked it up and wiggled her fingers at him. “Or if I’m still an elf,” she put a finger at her eartip.

“I am not a shapeshifter, Dorian. I can’t change what I am.”

“You may have two feet, but that certainly doesn’t require that you love either of them,” he pushed, reasonably.

“Any yet it also hardly matters,” she responded, far too used to this dance. “For they are a part of me regardless, and removing them would be far too much pain and trouble.”

“You felt differently, once,” he told her, but not unkindly.

“When I could,” she simply said.

He dropped it there, as he usually did.

 

* * *

 

The journey to the temple was harrowing. Only two hired bodyguards accompanied them on the long voyage, though it was unlikely they could have found any others if they had wanted more. The cities were empty. Even the sellswords had gone home, resigned to live out the end of their days among family.

Again, luxuries neither she nor Dorian could afford.

Leaving him would be the worst of it. But she pushed the thought from her mind as quickly as it came.

The 'lost' Temple of Dirthamen had been found for several decades now. Still, it had never been a common pilgrimage for her people even after she had discovered and reclaimed it. The location was poor, to start. It bordered on the northern edge of the Waking Sea, too close to Val Royeaux for the comfort of any clans visiting from the Dales. But worse than this, Dirthamen’s temple had become even less popular when the Dalish discovered that the Dread Wolf himself had visited it while in the company of His Heart.

The Dread Wolf’s Heart.

She despised when they called her that.

Perhaps she would have hated it less had there been any truth to it - had there ever been the slightest chance of such a bond between them. At her worst moments, in periods of darkness when even Dorian’s charm couldn’t dissuade her, she had admitted it all. She would have given everything, everyone, if he had let her. She would have fled with him and helped him burn the world - her world. She would have died and done so happily to see him happy, finally. She was pathetic, a fool, and no wonder he couldn’t love her.

She hadn’t been enough. She would never be enough.

And yet almost as soon as Solas’ new followers had begun to whisper the truth of his identity, the Dalish had whispered stories of her as well. It was a mercy her clan had not survived the events following the Breach to see what shame she would bring upon their name. She was the moral of every fable told by every hahren in every clan in all of Thedas. She was the fool who had not only allowed the Dread Wolf to catch her scent, but who had willingly given herself to him. She had gulped down each of his many lies like a dying woman in the desert sun and had begged him to let her drink of his deception again and again.

Some thought she had gone to him willingly - a wretch, mad with the taste of power given to her by the human Inquisition and desperate to acquire more. The more sympathetic tales painted her as a lovestruck fool, too blinded by the old trickster’s charm to see what was plain before her eyes. Regardless of the version of her story, nearly all the remaining elves refused to believe she had been completely fooled. No Dalish, no First of her clan, could have been so entirely taken in by the Dread Wolf himself.

No one should become a fable in her own lifetime.

The result was that the Temple would be empty, save for whatever hordes of darkspawn had made their way to the area or burrowed up from beneath its ancient floors. It took weeks of travel to finally arrive and, of course, both bodyguards had been lost along the way. She and Dorian had prepared for as much. They had expected to arrive alone.

There were thankfully few darkspawn to be found surrounding the Temple’s entrance, and none within, perhaps deterred by lingering magic from the ritual they had performed years ago. Inactivity was good, because it meant activity was more likely to be noticed. Thus far, all according to plan.

She and Dorian set about the work of positioning and activating the wards. With only one arm, her work was slower than his, but it was tedious all around. They had spent the better part of a decade collecting Solas’ wards from all over Thedas - the ones they could find that had not been destroyed or rendered completely inaccessible by the darkspawn hordes. It was a task they had agreed to embark upon alone, even before all the others were gone. There could be no whisper, no hint of what was to come if they were to succeed.

These were Solas’ elven artifacts that “strengthened the Veil.” Another obvious lie she should have immediately recognized. In hindsight, it took her only a look to realize that the artifacts were solid orbs before she “activated” them with the Mark, and looked as if they had been shattered apart by a tear between worlds after she touched them.

In truth, she and Dorian had learned after years of study, the artifacts strengthened the connection of the one who activated them to the Veil, not precisely the Veil itself. Another of the Dread Wolf’s honeyed lies. It was this connection that had saved her the second time she went bodily into the Fade, and also this connection that had ensured the Mark’s power was as strong as possible when Fen’Harel took it back from her.

She owed him her life many times over, if only he would take it.

The artifacts she and Dorian now arranged were inert. She was no longer capable of activating them and she could barely even recall the sensation now. She thought she remembered it being something sweeter, not excruciating the way that closing and opening rifts had been. There had been a sense, however brief, that it was no mysterious flowing energy causing the change in the artifacts’ shape, but rather her own thoughts shaping the expectations of how they should appear.

Slowly, they placed the artifacts in the precise pattern they had discussed for years - an oval of potential energy that surrounded the great wolf statue in the entryway of Dirthamen’s temple. It would require a great burst of magic ripped from the Fade to activate all of them simultaneously, but they were confident Solas would do them the courtesy of bringing such power himself.

The trap was set. He obliged them by walking through the entryway only moments later.

Twenty years gone and he still took her breath away.

He looked as he had the day in the Crossroads. The day everything ended. He was beautiful and terrible. His golden armor shone against the veilfire they had summoned to light the way, his shoulders adorned with furs of the beasts who shared his name. In the shadows where she hid, she pressed her back against the wall, cold water dripping between her shoulder blades. She prayed to nothing that he wouldn’t see her.

But, of course, he always saw her.

He was still there every night when she closed her eyes, the wolf in the distance. The shadow beyond the treeline. The eyes in the night. The hunter and the prey. She hated him for being there and dreaded the day he would finally leave.

His eyes turned to her first, but he looked away quickly and said nothing. She was grateful and she despised him. It had been years since he had spoken to her, called her name. No doubt he saw it as a kindness to wage their battles in silence, but she only cared that it had been so long since she heard his _voice_.

“Magister Pavus,” he smiled with a nod to Dorian. “It has been far too long.”

Her knees were weak. She was weak. There was so little time left and it had been _so long_ since she has been _so close_ to him.

Dorian cut the silence.

“Solas,” he said flatly. “I do hate to be rude, but you must forgive me if I insist we dispense with the pleasantries today.”

He bowed his head politely to the magister, still averting his gaze from the corner where she hid. “Then if not for pleasant conversation, why precisely have you ventured into one of the temples of my People? Surely Tevinter in its feeble state-”

And suddenly the moment was upon them. Dorian shifted his weight to his front foot, a move she had watched a thousand times. She saw the smallest beginnings of the spark in the crystal that adorned his staff and she knew her time had come.

“ _SOLAS_!” she yelled, with all the strength of her lungs. Her cry was beyond agony, beyond despair, beyond redemption. It filled all of her being and poured out of her. It was the first time she had said his name aloud in what felt like ages, and the tears sprang instantly to her eyes.

And he turned to her. As he was meant to. As he always would have done.

As they had planned.

Dorian’s fireball whizzed past Solas’ ear, perhaps a hair closer than they had planned. But the effect was the same.

Immediately the Dread Wolf was on the defensive, summoning a great wave of a barrier from the Fade to crash down upon his person and push his enemy away. But he had not seen the artifacts they had hidden beneath the vines and behind the rubble. He hadn’t distinguished the aura of their magic against the magic that lingered in the Temple.

The wards activated all around him, powered by the strength of the magic he had summoned from the Fade. And thanks to the modifications they had made - painstakingly, carefully - after years of research, Solas found himself paralyzed within the sphere.

Precisely as they had hoped.

Dorian was knocked back against the great statue behind him as Solas’ barrier came down, and she watched as he doubled over to catch his breath.

She had felt the push from barrier as well, but her back had already been against the wall. And one of the artifacts was at her feet.

 _Behind_ her feet.

She took a step forward, her figure shimmering beneath the green barrier that held Solas in place. She felt the magic of the spell whisper against her skin as she made her way toward him. She was within the wards but not held by them.

Just as _she_ had planned.

Dorian looked back up again, drawing the amulet from his pocket as he turned his gaze to the figures within the wards. His eyes found hers.

“Come away from there!” he cried to her, extending his hand. “It is nearly done!” He beseeched her with his words, his eyes. He believed that something had gone wrong, that there was a flaw in all their years of planning. He believed it was an accident.

But he was betrayed.

The recognition swept over his face like storm clouds, and he put his hand back down.

She could have said she was sorry, but she did not. She was not sorry and it would have been a lie to say so, and she would not lie to him again. He was her dearest friend and he deserved the truth.

“I love you,” she whispered. “And you must do this because I cannot.”

And then she tore her gaze from his and stepped toward the figure in the center of the wards.

Solas floated gently just above the ground, his arms loose at his sides. He could neither move nor speak, though his eyes were fixed on her. She approached him gently, pushing her way through the thick magic of the wards until she stood in front of him. Then, she closed the remaining distance between them, planting her shoulders under his arms and tracing her solitary hand across his back. She closed her eyes and rested her head upon his chest.

“ _Var lath vir suledin_.”

Behind her, Dorian raised the amulet high. A raging, green whirlpool of a rift opened, its maw widening as it expanded toward the elves in the wards. She could not see it, but she had seen it before and could feel its power against the back of her neck. Within a moment, they were consumed.

The rift closed.

Darkness fell.


	2. Consumed

There was nothing left.

She hadn’t moved, or at least she as far as she could recall, but the temple had disappeared around her. Her eyes weren’t closed but there was nothing to see. She was encompassed in blackness unlike anything she had ever experienced. Darker than the deepest of the Deep Roads and so painfully silent. She wanted to scream just to pierce the air.

But then she felt something.

Her head rose and fell against the thing it was resting upon. And then again.

Oh, she remembered.

He was here, too. Wherever “here” was.

His hands were around her now, fingers laced at the small of her back, and his head leaned down upon her own. She wondered when he had moved and whether they could separate themselves from one another, but some part of her knew that attempting might be dangerous. There was no ground beneath their feet, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that letting go would mean they both fall.

If they weren’t falling already, she considered.

“What, may I ask, was the intent of the spell?”

She wasn’t sure whether he had spoken out loud or if he even could do so. The words formed in her mind more than in the air around them, and somehow her heart sank even more to hear his voice so close. He was calm, steady. It was the only way she had heard him speak in so many years. She recalled distinctly the last time she heard emotion in his voice, but could barely summon the memory of what it actually sounded like.

She had lost so many pieces of him.

“Do you remember Redcliffe?” she asked, thought.

This was, in itself, a loaded question. She was certain he would know precisely what she meant - Alexius’ fumblings with time magic and the resulting chaos. But her other memories of Redcliffe were incapable of remaining below the surface of her churning thoughts. She found herself recalling the sight of him in that dark future - a future that, truth be told, was really not so much worse than the one that had come to pass.

Before she could stop herself, she remembered the look of him in that dank cell beneath Redcliffe Castle. His eyes red with the stain of the tainted lyrium, his face a painted mask of defeat and exhaustion. She had hoped to never see him wear that expression again, let alone be the cause of it. It was in that moment she had realized what he meant to her. It was then, in the broken castle of that twisted future, that she had known she was going to tell him.

And then, suddenly, she saw a different side of Redcliffe. Alexius stood on the dais in the castle with Dorian and her beside him. She watched, somehow _outside_ herself, as she and Dorian held up their arms to shield from the growing portal and then, briefly, winked out of existence.

Dread poured through her like ice, pooling in her stomach. And then, loss. Overwhelming loss and grief. The recognition that all of it, everything sacrificed, everything suffered, had been for nothing at all. And behind that, something darker. Something she could hardly admit to herself. That the loss was not simply general, but specific. That a person who mattered had been lost, and she mattered not just for the mark on her hand but for-

Oh, she realized.

These were not her memories.

“Yes, I remember Redcliffe,” Solas finally replied.

No, she thought. No, no, no. What fresh torture was this?

“It is not an especially desirable method of communication,” he thought.

She steeled herself to think of only the question at hand, pushing away all the other memories that came racing back when she thought of Redcliffe and their year together with the Inquisition. It was the same as controlling one’s thoughts while in the Fade, she tried to tell herself. Force of will.

“An apt comparison,” he complimented.

Damn him. But on she went.

“Alexius’ amulet and the accompanying spell he designed were meant to erase me from existence,” she told Solas. “Dorian and I were able to devise something similar.”

“I suppose, then, that you also recall my observation regarding the incredibly dangerous nature of that sort of magic?”

She did recall.

“The world was dying and we took a chance. If we did not succeed, at least the end would be swift.”

“So then, your plan was to erase me from existence, thus preventing the creation of the Veil and any future destruction I might have wrought.”

That was never _my_ plan, she thought, before she could stop herself.

“No? Then, why? Why are you here with me? Why did you not stay to see the results of what you had done? Had you so little hope that it would succeed?”

Do not answer that, she told herself. And to ensure her thoughts could not betray her, she began to hum a familiar song - the same one she used to sing when she was young to focus herself when she began to feel lost in her dreams.

The irony of the words was not lost on her.

 _Elder your time is come_  
_Now I am filled with sorrow_  
_Weary eyes need resting_  
_Heart has become grey and slow_  
_In waking sleep is freedom_

He said nothing. Thought nothing. At least nothing he allowed her to hear. For a long while, there was nothing but silence between them, and the singing in her head.

“You came with me to ensure it worked,” he finally said. “Unless you saw it yourself, you could never be certain that … the danger was gone. I would have done the same.”

Yes, she thought. Yes, that is precisely why. That is the only reason. It is practical, noble. It is what I used to be. Let him think that.

“NO!” A third voice suddenly interjected into the conversation.

The very last voice in all the world she wanted to hear.

“Grey and grieving for a life and levity they never could have shared,” the accusatory voice rang in her mind.

“Her dreams aren’t dreams, they’re something else. Memories of a life never lived, a person she can no longer pretend. She felt it once, under the blackberry vines, but it vanished before she could make it matter.”

“Cole!” she warned.

“This is not helping,” Solas offered.

“ _You_ are not helping,” Cole fired back, and while she couldn’t see him in the darkness, she knew it was directed at her.

“Here you are with no burdens left to bear, no pretenses left to lose to pride and still you will not let him see.”

“Please …” she begged.

But the angry spirit knew.

“Falling floaty edges and bits swirling in a sea of confusion and fear. The Nightmare comes for all her friends, she sees their cemetery in the distance.”

She held her breath, waiting for what was to come next.

“Glances at each grave in turn, scared to think what her friends become. Shamed to see their deepest fears laid bare before her now. But one name calls to her more than others. The name that leaps to life on her tongue each time she finds reason to speak it. And upon his grave, his gravest fear.”

And perhaps it was only her imagination, for indeed it seemed as if they were within a world where there was no light, no movement, no action, save thought, but she swore she felt his hands tighten against her back.

“She would not let you die alone,” Cole explained.

“Vhenan,” Solas exhaled, his voice weary and cracking, and she could almost remember what it was like to feel his breath against her skin.

“No,” she insisted. “Do not call me that. That is not what I am.”

“There was no Herald to close the Breach,” Cole explained. “So it engulfed the world, both waking and dreaming. But - no.” He stops, revising. “There was no Herald because there was never a Breach. The world did not survive the warring of its would-be gods without a Veil to contain them.

“But we will give you another chance,” said Cole’s voice.

“Who?” Solas asked with an uncertainty that shook her.

Cole paused for a moment. “Everything,” he finally answered.

“Another chance to do _what_?” She asked. “Because if you’re asking us to save this world, then you’ve picked the two worst candidates, by far.”

Solas chuckled against her. Again, she could almost remember feeling the movement of his chest and her heart leapt in spite of itself. To think that she could still make him laugh.

“Another chance,” the spirit merely repeated. And as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone.

He left them there in silence, bound together in the night, their thoughts a book opened between them for the first time, yet both of them warring to quiet their minds.

She was hardly surprised when she felt him wrenched from her grasp, torn through the silence, no longer able to cry out to him. He was ripped away across the distance, and her heart went with him as he flew. She wanted to scream but still the shadows would not let her. She wanted to follow but she didn’t know how.

And then it was over, and she was waking.

The sun and stars had returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from "Leliana's Song," written by Inon Zur.  
> http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Leliana%27s_Song_(soundtrack)


	3. Wisdom

She awoke - if it could be called waking, truly - in the Fade, amidst a dream.

She recognized it for what it was immediately. The vibrant colors and the sense of ease were too sharp to be real, too pretty to be believed. But whose dream was this, she wondered. For it could not possibly be hers.

Sleep had brought no comfort to her in recent years. Each time she closed her eyes she hoped for a dreamless sleep, a sleep where he did not linger just out of her reach and beyond her influence. Her dreams did not look like this. Her dreams were dark and burning battlefields with ash that littered the air and stung her lungs. This was something different.

She squinted her eyes against the bright sun overhead. It winked down at her between the forest leaves, golden warmth spilling across her face and into her bones. She inhaled deeply and found no trace of smoke or decay, but simply the woodsy scent of dirt and the musk of summer flowers that brought her thoughts to a long-forgotten home.

She found she was lying on her back, arms - yes _arms_ , oddly enough, she realized - spread wide away from her body. Grass tickled the backs of her legs and neck, and she moved her fingers tentatively, brushing them through the blades.

What she would give to be able to dream like this again.

The earth was cool beneath her and she felt more at ease than she had in decades. She focused on the sound of her deep and steady breaths, the smell of a nearby river suddenly filling her lungs as well. It was peace.

In the branches far above her head, a raven called out and shattered the silence. She peered up at the dark bird, silhouetted against the morning light that spilled through the trees and murmured, “Shh.” Whatever agenda the bird had was no concern of hers, and she had no plans to let it spoil the first bit of contentment she had experienced in so long.

But the raven was insistent, and yelled another time. It hopped from branch to branch, skipping down the trees until it came to rest somewhere to her left. Sighing with resigned annoyance, she propped herself up on an elbow and turned to face it.

It was a large bird with a violent stripe of red that ran from the tip of its head to the bottom of its neck. It stared at her curiously, tilting its head from side to side as it watched her move. They held their positions for a few moments, each surveying the other, until finally she pulled her legs to her chest and sat up to face it.

“Do you have a message for me, spirit?” she asked the bird, for what else could it be. But the raven did not respond, simply content to watch her as she struggled to keep her eyes open in the comfort of the sunny forest. And since it had apparently decided to ignore her, she figured she would do the same.

Instead, she turned her focus on her own form. She had noticed as soon as she ‘awoke’ that her arm had somehow returned to her. Now she found that this was not the only change. Her clothing was elven-made, woven boots that wound up to her knees and a flowing blue tunic covered by a light leather breastplate. She ran her hands over her scalp, brushing away the grass and dirt accumulated from her nap in the sun, and found her hair was thicker than she recalled. She winced as she struggled to separate the bits of grass from her tangled mop.

Odd, she thought to herself. And then a sense of something else. Something she was supposed to remember? Something someone had said to her, perhaps. A reason why all this change was necessary.

The raven screeched at her again.

“Fine, fine. Have it your way,” she grumbled at the bird as she stood in front of it. “Where do you want me to go?”

It nodded, as if in approval, before jumping from the log where it had perched and taking flight. It sped away into the air and she took off after it, strong legs pounding through the leafy underbrush like waves crashing upon the shore. She ran faster than she knew she could, save for in a dream, whipping through the trees, ducking and jumping as she avoided low branches and fallen logs. Her lungs ached with each breath she drew, and yet she pushed them harder. Her muscles burned and begged her to stop but she had no desire to do so. Ahead of her, the raven flew onward.

After what felt like an eternity, they passed beyond the edges of the forest and into a field of high, golden grass. The raven did not slow its flight, nor did she slow her frantic footsteps as, together, they soared through the field. She pulled her hands out from beside her chest and spread her fingers wide, savoring the feeling of the grass ripping past her as she flew. A raucous laugh erupted from deep within her lungs, lungs which barely had air left to breathe. She didn’t know what was funny but the raven seemed to feel the same, and it cawed along in time with her laughter.

Beyond the field was a vast desert, and beyond the desert another forest. They flew until the morning light faded into a bright afternoon, and well into the evening. Finally, when she felt as if her heart would burst from her chest if she did not stop, she fell to the ground and tumbled head over heels until she came to an ungainly stop at the foot of a tree. She struggled to find her breath again, the nearby scent of fresh herbs punctuating the cool night air and making her head spin. A campfire crackled nearby. She heard the raven beating its wings as it circled back and came to rest next to her on the ground.

When she looked up, the raven was gone and in its place was a woman with dark hair, flowing robes, and glowing green eyes.

“Who are you, spirit?” she asked the raven-woman.

“We have met before,” the spirit assured her.  “Or … is it after? It seems the timing is not certain. But you helped me once, or you will, and then I was gone, or will be gone, and could not repay you.”

She shook her head, the spirit’s words too heady and confusing after their exhausting flight across the Fade. “I don’t understand,” she said apologetically.

“That’s alright,” the spirit assured her kindly. “Understanding is the hardest part. Usually it comes last. But know this: You needn’t change everything to change something. I told him too, but he doesn’t always hear. He listens; he just doesn’t always hear.”

“I - what?” she asked, pushing the palm of her hand against her temple as she tried to figure the spirit’s cryptic meaning. The movement forced her eyes closed for a moment, and when she opened them again, neither the woman nor the raven remained. She was alone once more.

Slowly, she finally stood up from where she had collapsed at the base of the great tree. The smoke from the campfire she had smelled before still hung heavily in the moonlight when she heard the voices in the distance.

They were close. Perhaps only a few paces away. She crouched behind the large tree and peered around it, wondering what other abstruse spirits had decided to invite themselves to her dream tonight.

“... Briala did not tell me,” she heard a man in the distance say. She could not see his face, as it was obscured by a hood, but he was sitting in front of the campfire. Standing behind him was another figure, similarly cloaked.

“You cloud the truth,” the standing figure said in a voice she knew well.

The two men continued talking as she found herself creeping from behind the tree and inching closer to them. It was only when she was close enough to Solas to reach out to him that she noticed the glint of the knife in his hand. She froze in the darkness, uncertain if either of them could even see her.

“You know, I suspect you’ll hate this,” said the man on the ground. “But she reminds me of you.”

Solas sighed and she watched as the dagger slid from his grip and landed with a crunch on the fallen leaves below. He pushed the hood from his brow and walked around the fire so that he was facing the other man. In the glow of the flames, she could see that he was regarding Solas curiously.

“I do not ask for mercy, my friend,” he said.

“And yet you have it,” Solas replied.

“I did not expect this,” the man on the ground said finally, after several long moments of contemplation.

“Nor did I,” Solas agreed with a nod. “But as it stands, it is fitting now that I release you from your oath. Your service has been commendable and your loyalty unwavering … mostly,” he smiled and the other man chuckled in response.

“Well!” he laughed again, a relieved sort of bark that betrayed how nervous he must actually have been. “Is it time, then? Will you join us? Only once before have I seen a world so desperate for change,” he said with a knowing smirk.

“Solas?” she whispered, suddenly aware of how intrusive her presence must be. Both men turned to look at her.

And as soon as his eyes met hers, she woke up.


	4. Homecoming

She awoke in earnest this time, her back cramped and muscles tense from a night spent sleeping upon only a thin fur pelt to give some comfort against the cold ground. She opened her eyes cautiously, having now experienced two different bizarre shifts of reality one after the other, and not particularly eager to see a third.

But this was different. No disembodied voices, no mysterious ravens or green-eyed spirits to chase through the darkness and the Fade.

This was real.

Above her were the crimson sails with golden embroidery that marked the aravels of Clan Lavellan. She watched as they fluttered gently in the mountain breeze, and pulled the furs covering her up to her neck. The sun’s first rays were just cresting over the hills in the distance, but she could hear others in the camp already stirring, tending to the smoldering fires and readying the morning meal.

It was her favorite time of day and she had forgotten.

The furs were rough against her skin and the cold air bit at her cheeks and forehead. The smoke of the dying fires rolled across the camp and stung her eyes, no longer the sweet herb-scented flames she smelled in her dream. The edges were sharper here, everything harsher and brighter. The sun no longer winking down through the forest canopy but shining in her eyes and forcing her to squint. The ground no longer cool but cold, and her limbs aching as they often did after a night on the ground.

Home, she thought.

When Varric had offered her a home in Kirkwall, she was moved by how well he understood what she had lost. She and the dwarf had never been fast friends - it was clear the Champion was the only person who would ever fill that role. But Varric was an observer. He watched as her face became more drawn, her eyes lined and distant, in the years after her clan’s destruction in Wycome. He knew he had to return to Kirkwall after Corypheous had been defeated, but he was one of the last to leave Skyhold, watching as her shoulders slumped lower and lower with each departure.

And yet, as grateful as she was when he offered her the manor, she never thought to actually use it. She had lived in the Free Marches for enough of her life to know better than to willingly travel to Kirkwall, let alone establish her estate there. She could hardly imagine settling down in any city, and Kirkwall was especially devoid of color and nature. Yet when everything began to unravel, and when she felt she could no longer stomach another night in _his_ castle, Kirkwall had become her refuge.

It wasn’t home - not at first. Maybe not ever. She hated to close the windows and smell the stale air that came as a price of city life, but she also had no desire to look out from her Hightown estate and see the constant, gilded reminders of the thousands of slaves who had passed below. It was the company she kept that had made the estate her home, and of course Varric knew as much when he offered it to her. As that company had drifted away again, called to other, less hopeless, causes or killed by the foolish one she championed, Kirkwall felt less and less like home to her.

But here -

She peered around curiously at the other bodies hidden below bedding and furs, most still fighting the pull to start their day. Familiar faces surrounded her, though so many of their names were now lost to her shamefully inadequate memory. They were all so preciously, perilously young, so much younger than she had remembered. Those still sleeping had hidden under their arms, shielding their eyes from first light, and the faces of the hunters patrolling the edges of the camp were unlined and bright.

And this had been her world. This space, these people. They had been her first family, and the one she failed most completely.

It was only then that confusion and dread began to take the place of sleepy wonder.

Where was she? And _when_? What had Cole, or the thing that used Cole’s voice, done to her? She was certain this couldn’t be a consequence of the spell she and Dorian had prepared. There was never a discussion of going back, no mechanism to the magic that should have allowed for this outcome. Something else was at work here.

She had to pinpoint the time, in particular, as quickly as she could. If anything was to be changed, if anything could be changed, she had to know what events were already past her influence and what _could_ still be salvaged. She sat up, throwing the furs from her and allowing the sharp shock of the morning air to force her senses to wake. But she had not expected the next revelation.

Her arm had returned.

Logically, of course, she realized this was likely to be the case. Whenever she was, it was before Solas had separated the anchor from her, before she even had the anchor in the first place. And it was true, as it had been in the dream from which she just woke, that sometimes her mind would return the missing limb to her in the Fade. Yet to see the thing, a part of her again, simply laying by her side …

She turned the hand palm-down and raked the fingers through the dirt. She felt it slide beneath the nails and collect between the fingers, though if she hadn’t been watching it all happen, she would not have believed it was truly connected to her person. It was … unsettling and strange. It would take some getting used to.

What else had changed, she wondered. If she was here, with her clan, then the vallaslin would mark her once again. She put a hand - her _real_ hand, she couldn’t help but think - to her cheek, and was shocked to feel the skin full and supple beneath her touch. She drew away quickly.

“Since when are you vain?” she grumbled at herself, interrupting the quiet snores of the elf closest to her. And when she stood, as she finally did, she found it easier to arise from a meager bedroll set upon some chilly hilltop than it had been to drag herself from the Orlesian four-poster monstrosity that Vivenne had insisted upon gifting her when she moved to Kirkwall. In part it was her renewed strength, her younger muscles and practiced form. But in part it was also her renewed -

No, she stopped herself. No hope. Not yet. It was far too early for that and she had been fooled by hoping many times before. A chance was merely that, and not a guarantee. It she weren’t careful, she would likely find herself reliving the same mistakes all over again, if not stumbling into even more disastrous consequences.

She wrapped her arms around her midsection and let her eyes wander around the dawnlit camp, wondering what would come next. She would have to find him, she knew, though she had precious few clues where to start. The other man in the dream had mentioned Briala, and she had to imagine the Orlesian elf was still somewhere near Val Royeaux these days - long before Gaspard had finally grown tired of her furtive machinations and found a way to dispose of her. But to travel from the Free Marches to Orlais with no evidence that he would be there except for a name whispered in a dream?  

Home at last and her heart sank as she realized she would soon have to leave again.

 

* * *

 

 “Are - are you doing alright there, lethallan?”

She looked up from the stream, water dripping through her fingers and blurring her vision as she turned toward the voice. She had been … distracted. What started as her usual morning trip to wash her face and hair at the nearby source of fresh water had turned into an extended process. She found herself dipping her hands under the bubbling stream over and over again, dumping the frigid water over her head and neck, drinking what fell into her mouth.

Apparently it had appeared stranger to a bystander than she’d realized.

“Yes, dalen. I’m fine,” she said to the young hunter when she had wiped the water from her eyes and finally had a good look at him. His face was familiar, but she couldn’t place him. She recalled him being an eager young man who the Keeper believed showed promise and might one day become one of their clan’s elder hunters. But for the life of her, she couldn’t recall his name.

The two elves stared at each other for a moment, separated by the span of the small brook. Finally, the hunter broke the awkward silence again.

“Sleep in a bit today?” he asked with a grin.

“I - I suppose I did,” she replied. She stared at his face longer, waiting for the recognition to wash over her. Finally it happened, when she saw the way the left side of his mouth turned up when he smiled, and noted June’s markings on his face. “Marden!” she announced to the bewildered hunter.

“Erm, yes?” he asked, having no idea why the First had suddenly shouted his name like a revelation.

“Hmm? Oh, nothing.” She looked him over once again, much to his apparent discomfort. Had he been this young when she had left home? She couldn’t honestly recall. However young he was, she reminded herself, it was far too young to have perished at the hands of those who had destroyed her clan. Her smile faded quickly.

She could change things. That much she knew, though she had no idea how much of a difference any of it would truly make. But here was one thing that was certain. She knew precisely how Clan Lavellan was destroyed, and when. She knew which city was dangerous and which noble would betray them. Here was something she could change.

She stood up suddenly from where she had crouched by the stream, Marden watching her with something between curiosity and trepidation. “The Keeper,” she said, more to herself than to him.

“Keeper Deshanna is in her aravel, I suspect,” Marden told her, and she stared back at him in surprise.

“Of course she is,” she said bluntly, not realizing until too late that the boy was trying to be helpful. He frowned at what he must have perceived as teasing, or perhaps early-morning grumpiness, and moved to turn back to camp.

“Marden, wait a moment,” she called out, wondering what more information she might get from the younger elf before she strode into the Keeper’s aravel with no idea when or where she was.

“It’s a lovely, um, winter,” (she guessed), “morning, is it not?”

Marden raised an eyebrow at her. “Yes, I suppose. If you like the cold, that is.”

“And then, are you looking forward to the warmer weather soon …?” she asked, less tactfully than it had sounded in her mind.

“Soon?” he asked her, staring. “I mean, I suppose it would be nice if it comes sooner rather than later,” he shrugged. “But we’ve still got two weeks before Wintersend, even.”

“Ah, right!” She grinned at him, and he shrunk from her again. Two weeks until Wintersend, that put her in the first month of the year. Now if she could only get the year itself out of him.

But Marden, perhaps sensing that there was worse to come, abruptly took his leave. “I, uh, need to head back and get something to eat,” he excused himself.

She grimaced at her foolishness as she followed the stream back towards the camp. Marden might be a young thing, but of course he wasn’t so helpless that he couldn’t notice her acting strangely. She would have to do a better job of disguising her confusion if she wanted them to trust her.

She stopped herself, a cold thought suddenly dripping down her spine.

What was her plan? To whisper half-truths and lies of omission to this, her family? To gain their trust under false pretenses? Would she hound them for information and then leave them as soon as their usefulness had run out? How would she face the Keeper, the woman who had trained her and by whose side she had served for years prior to the Conclave?

But how could she tell them the truth? How could they ever believe her?

How could she look at them now, after what she had seen? What she had done. What she had failed to do.

Marden was long dead. Deshanna too. And she - well, she was dangerous.

Perhaps it would be best if she merely walked out of camp and never looked back, and then murdered the Duke of Wycome at her earliest convenience.

She stood, listening to the songbirds that called to one another across the forest, water dripping from her hair and down her face. She looked to the sails of the aravels in the distance, watched as Marden made his way to one of the campfires, smiling as he joked with the other hunters. And then she looked beyond, to the footpath that led down the mountain.

She began walking.

 

* * *

 

She made it only as far as the footpath before she was stopped by another hunter.

“Hey, _flat-ear_ ,” she heard him say behind her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She whirled on her heel, and turned to face him as the blood rushed to her cheeks. “Do NOT call me that, dalen,” she chided him.

“I - what? Of course, not hahren,” he apologized. He was slightly older than Marden, but only just, and she couldn’t remember anything of him, let alone his name. Whoever he was, he was certainly terrified of her at the moment. “I would never call you that,” he assured her.

It was only then that she remembered, composed herself. She wore the vallaslin. They knew her as their First. She had been so used to hearing that insult thrown at her by her own people after … after. Her hand hurried to her cheek as she realized. If the word had not been for her, then who?

“You, stop!” the hunter yelled again, and she turned to match his gaze.

A hooded figure was making the slow climb up the last of the footpath to their camp. His clothes were tattered, and yet had been finely-made. He wore a full, white robe made of a thin fabric that clung to his figure, and which might once have shone brightly when it caught the light but now was merely dull and dirty. There were hints of fine golden embroidery at his wrists and feet, but these were also faded and tarnished now. In his right hand he carried, or rather leaned heavily upon, a wooden staff unlike anything she had ever seen. It was a marvellous thing, wood carved to twist and curve upon itself, like vines creeping up from the ground. At the head of the staff, the vines parted and intertwined to form a hollow sphere, which enclosed a large green stone.

So struck had she been by his bizarre finery, that she looked at his face last.

His face.

His eyes met hers and he breathed a sigh of relief, slumping against his staff and putting a knee to the ground. She ran to him, without thinking.

He had come _to her_.

She had assumed, giving it hardly any thought, that she would spend her next few months tracking him down. There was no reason for him to come to her, not now. Not when he could extricate himself from her, and from everything and everyone else that had complicated his plans. He was free.

So what was he _doing_ here, she wondered again and felt a familiar whisper of dread at the back of her neck.

But when she reached his side, she put a shoulder under his arm and did her best to hold him up, though he was far too tall for her to manage it.

“Help me!” she bellowed at the hunter standing dumbfounded at the edge of the camp. He narrowed his eyes but then slung his bow over his shoulder and obeyed, begrudgingly.

“You know this flat-ear?” he asked as he put his shoulder under Solas’ other arm and they slowly began to help him toward the camp.

“Do not call him that,” she snapped at the hunter again. “Do not call _anyone_ that, _ever_ ,” she said, icily. “Do you understand?” She stared at him, furious and, frankly, terrifying.

“I understand, lethallan,” he mumbled, sufficiently embarrassed as not to argue with her.

Solas exhaled again, sharper this time than the last, and suddenly she felt his weight bearing down heavily upon her shoulder as he lost his footing. She grunted, nearly losing her own balance in the process, but managed to stay standing. When she turned to him, his eyes were closed beneath the hood that dipped low over his forehead.

He was pale, the color gone from his lips and cheeks, beneath the line of freckles she had traced a hundred times ...

 _Stop_ , she told herself, turning her eyes to the ground. It had been too long since they had been this close.

“What’s wrong with him?” the hunter asked, and she was thankful for the interruption.

“I don’t know.” She stepped forward carefully, sliding a hand around Solas’ waist so he wouldn’t fall backward. The hunter followed her lead.

“We need to get him to the Keeper,” she decided.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments & kudos! I really appreciate it. <3


	5. Wolf

At the outer edge of the camp next to a rotting log, sat a statue that the clan carried with them each time they moved. It was a simple thing carved from dull stone, the edges of its features long since eroded by wind and rain. Despite this, the outline of the figure was still apparent. The wolf, posted outside the camp with his back turned away from the warmth within, was believed to guard the clan from intruders and tricksters. It took a thief to catch a thief, after all.

Clan Lavellan’s First and one of its hunters walked the Dread Wolf past the statute and into their camp.

She could only imagine the stories future Dalish would tell to condemn this moment.

Keeper Deshanna stood up from the pile of furs where she had been reading when they entered her aravel. She surveyed Solas curiously and motioned that they should lay him down on the floor. Once he was positioned comfortably, the Keeper turned to her First.

“What happened to this man? Who is he?”

“Looks like some fool from the city who stole his lord’s clothes and made a run for it,” the hunter offered his unsolicited assessment. She turned to correct him, but Deshanna beat her to it.

“Don’t be silly, dalen,” the Keeper shook her head. “These clothes are worn,” she said, picking up a bit of Solas’ sleeve and running it between her thumb and finger. “And look at how they are tailored to fit his figure. No, these clothes were made for this man, and he has owned them for a very long time.”

The hunter pouted, annoyed that he had been told he was wrong so many times in the span of a few minutes. “Then perhaps a high-ranking servant in a lord’s household,” he suggested, trying to redeem himself.

“Perhaps,” the Keeper nodded. Deshanna leaned over Solas, who was breathing slowly with his eyes closed. She waved a palm over his mouth briefly, then began to softly prod his limbs and midsection with her fingertips. When he showed no response, she leaned back again to look him over.

“What was he doing when you found him?” Deshanna asked, looking at her First again.

She wrung her hands for a moment, stalling. How much could she say? What would the Keeper believe?

“He just stumbled up to the camp,” the hunter interrupted again. “Looked like maybe they knew each other,” he added, nodding at the First as he did.

Deshanna turned to her questioningly, but she made no move to reply. Finally, with a sigh, the Keeper waved a hand at the young hunter. “You may go, dalen. Tell the others to prepare a bowl of broth for this man.” He blushed at her dismissal, but finally left them alone.

“Now,” Deshanna said, fixing her with a pointed stare. “What is going on, child?”

“I saw him walking toward the camp, stumbling,” she explained. “He was about to lose his footing, so I ran to help him. Is he - what is wrong with him?”

“Nothing,” Deshanna replied with a shrug.

“Nothing?”

“He’s sleeping. He doesn’t seem to want to wake, but I often feel that way myself at this hour of the morning.” The Keeper smiled, and then poked a finger at Solas’ chest, where the silky fabric hugged his ribs. “He also looks a little underfed, but I hear that is a common affliction among our cousins in the cities.”

“He is … not from the city,” she said slowly.

“No?” Deshanna asked, eyebrow arched.

“No.”

“And so I ask again - who is he?”

“He’s … a wanderer. Neither from the city nor Dalish,” she explained.

“And how precisely do you know that, dalen? Have you seen this person before?”

She searched her memories from the time before she left for the Conclave. She had so rarely had cause to leave her clan, so rarely had any contact with outsiders. And besides that, she didn’t want to be dishonest. She had lied to her friends enough for one lifetime.

“We shared a dream,” she said finally, and Deshanna frowned as she folded her arms across her chest.

“What sort of dream was this?”

“A dream of things to come. A … a vision.” She realized how it sounded, but it was as close to the truth as she could manage.

Deshanna let out her breath in a low whistle. “This is dangerous magic, child,” the Keeper shook her head. “You know this. You have had your own magic, served by my side long enough to be cautious of such things. When you saw this man in the Fade, how could you have been certain he wasn’t a demon determined to show you only what it wanted you to see? And now that we have him here in the flesh, what if he is _somniari_?”

She froze, neither blinking nor exhaling. She had not been prepared for her Keeper to so quickly hit upon precisely what was in front of them. Fortunately, Deshanna hadn’t stopped scolding her long enough to notice.

“You recall what happened to that boy who Sabrae Clan took in a few years back? We cannot risk such a thing happening here.”

She did recall the story of the young half-elf the clan at Sundermount had agreed to foster. The Keepers of the Free Marches might not have had an opportunity to see each other regularly, but that certainly didn’t stop them from gossipping via letters exchanged by hunters who passed each other in the field, or even within their dreams. The story of the first known Dreamer in two ages had been a common tale when he joined the Dalish outside of Kirkwall. The story of the boy’s inability to control his nightmares and the eventual intervention of Kirkwall’s Champion was common as well, and the reason why Solas’ casual admission of his own abilities had unnerved her when he revealed them in Haven.

She weighed her options, and chose a potentially disastrous one.

“He _is_ a Dreamer,” she told Deshanna.

“Oh hush, dalen,” the Keeper said with a laugh. She was an elderly woman, though her power and skill were not diminished, and Deshanna had no time for foolishness. “I only meant to demonstrate why caution is needed. No _somniari_ in two ages and then suddenly two in less than a decade? That simply is not possible. And if he were a demon, I doubt he’d rest here unconscious letting me poke fingers in his ribs.” Deshanna prodded Solas again to demonstrate. He grunted in his sleep.

“You would not be the first to have your head turned by a pretty man in the Fade, my dear,” Deshanna told her with a mischievous grin. “And if he overstated his abilities to win your affections, well who could blame the poor fool? He would not be the first to do that either.”

She blushed, and was immediately furious with herself. Deshanna’s grin widened, infuriatingly.

“Whatever you think you saw, dalen, you must consider the nature of the Fade. It shows us what we expect to see, especially when our minds are clouded by … other concerns,” Deshanna continued with a knowing nod at the elf on the floor. “Eat something that doesn’t agree with you, lose your concentration a little, and next thing you know you’re seeing visions of the future in your dreams!”

She stared back at the Keeper, uncertain whether to be annoyed or relieved. For better or worse, Deshanna certainly wasn’t taking her seriously.

They were interrupted briefly when one of the hunters swept aside the fur that covered the door to the Keeper’s aravel and presented them with the requested bowl of broth. Deshanna took it with her thanks and then handed it over to her First.

“You are not prone to flights of fancy, my dear.” The Keeper stood then, walking over to a trunk in the corner of her dwelling. She opened the lid and brought out a handful of vials, peering at them one by one as she spoke. “In the years you have been my First, you have always served me well and made me proud. If you met this man and wanted him to join our clan, you need only have asked.”

She scoffed a bit, earning a chuckle from Deshanna. “It is not so simple as you say, Keeper. We did share a dream, and I am worried about its meaning.”

Deshanna finally found the vial she wanted. She replaced the others and then returned to Solas’ side. “Indeed. We shall wake him and see what he has to say for himself, the rascal.”

“Wake him?” she asked the Keeper. If, as she suspected, Solas had just returned from a very long sleep, she had no idea what forcing him awake might do. And as soon as the thought crossed her mind, as soon as she realized she was more worried about protecting him again than righting what had been done, she hated it. She steeled herself.

“Wake him,” she said. No longer a question.

If Deshanna had seen her hesitation, she made no comment upon it. She nodded to her First, uncorked the vial, and passed it under Solas’ nose.

No reaction.

The Keeper passed the vial under his nose again. This time, he inhaled sharply, coughed like a man with water in his lungs, but still his eyes remained shut. Deshanna clucked her tongue at him.

“This one doesn’t want to wake? Fine.” Deshanna stood then, corked the vial, and placed it at her side. “You will watch him,” she told her First. “Try the salts twice an hour. If he wakes, give him as much of the broth as he will eat.” The old woman turned to leave the aravel.

“Wait!” she cried after her Keeper. “Couldn’t - I mean - isn’t there someone else who could watch him?” Much as she would loathe to entrust the task to any other member of her clan, sitting here, next to him, watching him sleep seemed well past her capacity.

Deshanna looked back at her. “No,” she said plainly.

“No?”

“No,” the Keeper repeated. “You brought him here. He is your change now.” And with no further discussion upon the matter, Deshanna left them alone.

She stared down at him, the bowl of broth cradled between her hands. His chest rose and fell evenly. He seemed utterly at peace.

She thought how simple a thing it would be to press a kiss to his lips.

She thought how easy it would be to drag a dagger across his throat.

 

* * *

 

The Keeper brought her food and water at midday and confirmed there had been no change. As instructed, she held the vial beneath his nose twice an hour. Sometimes he fidgeted slightly, sometimes he coughed or sneezed. Once he reached out and grabbed her wrist and she nearly dumped the contents of the vial all over his face in shock, but she steadied herself. His hand fell back to his side and he still did not wake.

Finally, near dusk, he woke on his own accord.

She realized she should have guessed he would only return once the time suited him.

He breathed in deeply, then opened his eyes at once. He saw her immediately, and for just a breath she thought she saw the beginnings of a smile stir at the corners of his mouth, but it faded just as quickly. After a moment, he raised himself to a sitting position. She made no move to assist him. They regarded each other until she broke the silence.

“Why?” she asked, her voice higher than she wanted.

It was the beginning of a thousand questions she wanted him to answer, and she didn’t know which of those questions she was asking. _Why have you come here? Why didn’t we die? Why were we given another chance? Why did you come to me this time? Why did you shut me out? Why wouldn’t you let me help you?_

_Why wasn’t I enough?_

And when he replied, she wasn’t sure which of her unspoken questions he meant to answer.

“I made a series of disastrous choices, and then decided to make another,” Solas told her.

Nothing new there.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

“I believe this is when I awoke,” he said, looking down at the fine garments he still wore. “Though, this is not how I remember it.”

“You’re in my clan’s camp,” she explained, feeling - what? Foolish, more than anything else. Bewildered as well. So many words she needed to say to him and yet she felt she was already out of things she could say.

“How …?”

“There was an eluvian where I slept,” Solas explained. “When I awoke, I traversed a part of the Crossroads and found a path that led here. Doing so required more energy than I anticipated.” He placed a hand to his forehead, apparently still exhausted from the effort.

“Is this where you awoke before? In - in the past, that is?” It seemed a silly question, a bizarre coincidence if true. But she had to ask.

“No. Several things have changed,” he replied.

“Have _you_ changed?”

He hesitated before answering, drawing himself more upright and moving so that he could steady himself against the side of the aravel. “I am as I was when I awoke, before the Breach. What power I had amassed after those events is gone now. I am weaker now than you have seen me.”

It was a surprisingly honest answer, but not the one she was looking for.

“That’s not what I meant,” she told him.

“I know,” Solas sighed, the regret in his tone apparent. She paused, considering what to ask him next and, instead, he took a turn.

“You have changed,” he told her. His eyes traced the markings on her face, moved to her arm. “You have regained the things I took from you.”

“ _Some_ of the things,” she amended.

“Some of the things,” he agreed, and fell silent.

She stared down at the bowl of broth she’d placed on the floor, then picked it up and held it out to him. “This is cold, and I’m sure you’ll hate the taste but-”

“But it is appropriate sustenance for one whose body has not required such in a very long time, and it is what your people are able to provide. Thank you, lethallan.”

He had meant it as a peace offering, she imagined, but he had never known what a stab it was to hear him call her that, let alone to hear it juxtaposed against _your_ people. Not our people. Not my people. The Dalish were her people, never his. To the extent that he had ever been willing to think of her as _lethallan_ , it was when he found the ways she was like him, and never the reverse.

They sat in silence as she watched him try, and fail, to prevent his expression from betraying his disgust with what her people could offer him.

 

* * *

 

Once he had eaten his fill, she retrieved a suitable set of clothing to replace his tattered robes. The footwraps she found were a bit too small, and the tunic a bit too short, but he thanked her for them anyway. Deshanna questioned him at length, and Solas confirmed her story that they had shared a dream and seen a vision of a dark future. The Keeper seemed no more inclined to believe Solas than she had her First, and her smug grins made it clear that she had already made up her mind as to his intentions.

There were things she must ask him - who the other man in the dream was, how Briala was involved, whether he has already relinquished control of his orb - but she could not muster the courage to ask them. Nor would it have mattered if she could, since Keeper Deshanna stayed close to the two of them as soon as they left the aravel. When it was time for the evening meal, Deshanna hooked her arm through Solas’ elbow and steered him to a seat beside her at the large bonfire. The others regarded him with interest, an apostate elf who had arrived stricken with some unknown affliction just this morning, and now sat in the place of honor at their Keeper’s side.

She leaned against a tree several paces outside the circle and watched, horrified.

“Now young man,” Deshanna said as Solas lowered himself to sit on the bench next to her. “We of Lavellan Clan have provided you with our hospitality, and it is time that you repay us!” The others in the circle smiled and nodded their approval, while Solas eyed her questioningly.

“I agree that you have been most hospitable,” he told Deshanna. “But I have no coin, no worldly possessions, nothing to offer you in kind. What would you ask of me?”

“My First tells me that you are a traveler,” the Keeper said with a wide grin. “And so, you shall tell us a story you heard on your travels. If it is a good enough story, perhaps we shall even allow you to stay the night in our camp, rather than leave you to the woods.” Deshanna laughed heartily at her joke, and the other elves around the bonfire followed suit.

From the shadows, she observed it all with worry. She wasn’t sure whether it would be a worse thing for Solas to refuse the trade entirely, or for him to accept and tell them some story they wouldn’t want to hear.

But of course, Solas was never one to pass up a willing audience, and so he hesitated only a moment before agreeing to Deshanna’s offer.

“Very well,” he began. “I shall tell you the story of the Knight and her Guardian.”

She gripped the tree against which she had been leaning, fingers scratching against its bark.

“Long ago, the knights who protected the People were protected themselves by ferocious Guardians. The Guardians were wolf companions who fought alongside the Knights in bonded pairs - one wolf for one Knight. Once paired, wolf and elf were always together - in battle, in glory, and in defeat.”

“The Emerald Knights,” one of the hunters in the circle mumbled to the others.

 _Or something long before them_ , she thought. Solas continued.

“There was a Knight who was the best of her people. She was courageous, but not foolish. Just, but never vengeful. Wise, but not prideful.”

Her grip on the tree tightened.

“The Knight and her Guardian fought many battles together. The wolf fought by her side and she protected him in turn. Until, one day, the wolf found his pack.

“The Guardians were known for their undying loyalty to their Knights, but this wolf was confronted with the possibility of returning to his own. He turned on his Knight, forsaking their bond.

“At first, the Knight refused to believe his deceit. She tried to win him back with words, reminding him of what they shared. But the wolf saw her now as a stranger amidst his own kind, and he attacked.

“Still, she would not fight him. Her patience and her kindness was legendary, and though he was cruel, she still believed she could win him back. And so on it went, until they were surrounded by both the Knight’s people and the wolf’s pack, each side wondering who would be victorious.

“It was then that the wolf made yet another grave mistake,” Solas said.

“In his desperation, the wolf lashed out and wounded one of the Knight’s people. Enraged, she finally retaliated against him and their fight began in earnest.

“The Guardian and the Knight were both strong, both powerful, and their battle was devastating. They rent each other with tooth and claw, steel and magic, until the ground beneath them was wet with blood. The wolf struck a fatal blow and the Knight fell to the ground, dying.

“It was only then that they discovered the chaos around them.

“In their anger, they had attacked indiscriminately. The bodies of her people and his pack laid bent and broken around them, sacrifices unknowingly claimed during their violent battle. All the wolves and all the people were dead. They were the only ones left.

“And when the wolf turned to his dying Knight, he found her utterly transformed. She was elven no longer, but wolf herself, her broken body hidden beneath a black fur coat.

“The wolf laid down beside her as she died. He howled his outrage and despair to an empty world, for he had made her what he most despised in himself.”

Solas looked down at the campfire when the story was finished. The others sitting in the circle murmured quietly to each other. A good story, the consensus seemed to be.

She felt the hot tears slipping down her cheeks and gasped as her fingernails sank deep into the skin of her palms, her hands balled in tight fists. _How dare he_ , she thought. How dare he compare what she had done to what he was willing to do?

She looked at his face and found that he was already looking at her, his expression utterly stricken and his eyes brimming with tears. He turned away quickly, and when he looked up again he was calm once more.

“Well done,” Deshanna told him as she patted his knee. “Though, the next time someone asks you for a story, perhaps you could make it a happy one?” The Keeper chuckled, then waved a hand, signaling to the clan that the meal was over and they could take their leave. The crowd dispersed as they set off alone to their evening chores or in pairs to enjoy the clear night.

Solas remained seated by the campfire for a long while, his head in his hands.

She turned her back to him and went to find her Keeper.

 

* * *

 

“You are going to leave with him,” Deshanna told her. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” she answered anyway. The Keeper nodded.

“It will be difficult to go on without you, dalen. I am old and you have been my apprentice for many years. I thought you would replace me, in time.”

Her stomach twisted with guilt. She considered, perhaps for the first time, how worried Deshanna must have been to send her to the Conclave.

“You must be careful with that man,” the Keeper went on. “You told me yourself he is a wanderer, but there is something in him of the wolf from his story, too. He yearns for a pack of his own, but he believes he is an outsider. He thinks he should be alone, but more likely he is just used to being lonely. And he is terrified of you.”

She sighed, reached out, took Deshanna’s hand. If she could change something, she would at least change this.

“Thank you hahren,” she told the Keeper. “You are so wise, wiser than I even remembered,” she said without thinking. “I will miss your guidance.”

“And you are changed, child,” Deshanna said. “I know not what manner of magic reached out to you in this dream, but promise me you will not forget who you are, no matter what it offers you.”

“I will do my best, Keeper,” she said, tightening her grip on the old woman’s hand. “And may I ask you a favor in return?”

“Name it.”

“Avoid Wycome. In our dream, I saw only danger for our clan there.”

Deshanna fixed her with a stare, studying her. “Then we shall avoid it,” she finally responded. “And you shall take what supplies you need and leave at first light.”

“I cannot ask you for supplies,” she said. “And, if you will allow it, I would prefer to leave now.”

“So eager to elope?” Deshanna teased, but then relented upon seeing the pain on her face. “Of course, dalen. You will do as you must.”

Within the hour, they were ready. Upon Deshanna’s insistence, she had filled a small pack with a meager supply of dried meat and berries. She added Solas’ tattered garments to their supplies as well, in case they might be able to trade them for coin along the way. Then, she said what goodbyes she never had a chance to say all those years before.

As the moon rose, the Knight and the Guardian slipped into the woods, side by side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone reading, commenting, giving kudos! I should have said this at the start, but this is a project I'm doing (sort of) in conjunction with NaNo, and I am forcing myself to publish chapters as I go along, which is a VERY scary thing for me. As such, I apologize for any rough edges or places where it's clear this is definitely a WIP. I'm just happy I've felt able to actually put stuff out there for a change!


	6. Dreaming

One foot in front of the other.

They fell into line, her in the lead and him following close behind. It wasn’t so different from all the times they had walked across Thedas with the others. Except, of course, in all the ways it was completely different. But habits were hard to break, and she kept an eye out at the front like she always had while she felt him a few steps behind her, his aura softly humming to her like a song she’d somehow forgotten she knew. Quieter than she remembered, though.

She had no idea where they were going except down. Down the mountain from where her clan was camped. She knew eventually she’d have to ask him, or tell him, their destination, but she hadn’t decided which would be the case yet. Solas had never shown the most prudent judgment when it came to his own plans, but she didn’t feel much like trusting herself at that moment either.

After a long while, he spoke first.

“The Keeper of your clan was a delightful woman,” he offered. She latched onto the surprise she heard in his voice, though she knew he hadn’t meant for it to sound as it did. “You rarely spoke of her,” he continued.

“I rarely spoke of her _to you_ ,” she returned, and regretted it. But it was the truth. Solas had made his feelings on her people clear early in their interactions and, while he had softened on that assessment somewhat, she had always been hesitant to broach the subject with him.

She stopped then, turning around to face him. “The eluvian you used to get here - where is it?”

“I am afraid it is no longer passable,” Solas shook his head. “The pathways are slowly being shut as one of your former allies gains control of increasingly larger portions of the Crossroads.”

“Briala?” she asks. “I recall that she once controlled a portion of the eluvians, but I thought you said you overrode that magic.”

“I did. But I haven’t yet,” Solas explained.

She stared at him. “Well. That’s going to be confusing,” and, to her surprise, a small laugh escaped her.

“Very,” he agreed, and something like the beginnings of a smile showed at the lines of his eyes, the corners of his mouth. Then it passed.

“And the orb? Your foci?”

She knew what his answer would be from the look on his face.

“Gone,” he confirmed.

She ran a hand across her forehead and through her hair, letting out a slow breath. “Please tell me you didn’t-”

“I did not,” Solas said. “Or rather, I did, but I already had. That is, I wasn’t afforded the choice this time. I had already instructed my agent to ensure that the Venatori would find the foci.” Then he frowned. “It is surprisingly challenging to achieve precision in one’s speech when time magic is involved,” he complained.

“So you’re saying we didn’t go back far enough?” she asked, and he nodded in response. “Then what was the point?”

“I must confess my confusion as well. The sequence of events appears to be mostly set from this point forward. Corypheous will receive the orb, he will attempt to unlock it at the Conclave. Unless you or someone else interrupts him once again, he will receive the Anchor - which would be even more disastrous than what happened previously. And if his ritual is interrupted, then the Breach will likely be closed as it was before, and it will become necessary for me to remove the Anchor once again.”

“But,” she reminded him. “You told me that things had already changed.”

“This is true,” he said. “But they are not things of any great consequence to Corypheous or the Breach. Or, if they are, I am at a loss to find the connection.” He was frustrated, she could hear the edge in his voice.

“Solas,” she whispered. And in that moment, looking at the man dressed in the unassuming garb of a wandering apostate, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to reach out a hand to his arm and give it a reassuring squeeze.

She awkwardly ripped it back when she realized what she’d done.

“I am sorry.” His eyes fixed hers, solemn and utterly lost. It was an apology for his current frustration, but also not for that at all. She wasn’t ready to hear it.

A rustle in the underbrush nearby was almost a welcome interruption. Then she heard the yell.

“APOSTATES!”

She wheeled, her grip on her weapon tightened, and a lick of flame crawled across the small crystal at the head of her staff. She peered through the woods ahead of them, but the sun had fully set and there was little to see in the distance.

“Templars,” Solas whispered, pointing in the direction the voice had come from. He too had grabbed his weapon and steadied himself for a fight.

“Templars?” she hissed back at him. “What would they be doing out here?”

“If memory serves, we are both temporally and geographically in the middle of the rebellion that began after the events at Kirkwall,” he reminded her.

_Shit_ , she thought as her memories caught up with what was happening. He must have been right. Her own memories from this time were a bit murkier, since she lacked a major life event like waking up from a few millennia of slumber to latch on to. But she seemed to recall her clan moving here, further east along the Vimmark Mountains, specifically to put some distance between themselves and the chaos unfolding around Kirkwall.

She quickly surveyed Solas. Just the act of drawing his staff and summoning a minimal measure of energy to weave around himself in preparation to cast had visibly tired him. He had spent the entire day sleeping, recovering, and yet he looked like he could fall asleep standing up.

“How will you do in a fight?” she asked him, and he frowned.

“I fear I will be a substantial liability,” he admitted, and she couldn’t say she doubted it. She’d be lucky if he got a spell off before he fell over.

“On the ground,” she whispered to him, pointing a finger at the brush beneath them while she kept an eye trained on the darkness beyond them for any signs of movement. To her great surprise, he obeyed immediately, dropping quickly to the dirt and sliding himself under a nearby bush. She followed, lying in front of him on the thick layer of leaves that littered the forest floor as silently as she could manage.

As best she could in the awkward position, she held her staff in front of her, gripped in both hands. She closed her eyes to focus, opening her mind to the Fade and envisioning a smooth, silver tendril curling out to greet her. In her mind, she watched as it expanded, a glimmering, translucent square of energy that floated down over her and Solas like a blanket. She opened her eyes and found him staring at her curiously.

“Invisibility?” he asked, but she shushed him when she heard nearby footfalls.

It wasn’t invisibility, not exactly. Just a minor distortion in the air surrounding them that muddled the lines of where their bodies ended and the ground began. Until she felt the strange embrace of the magic upon them, she wasn’t entirely confident her younger self would be able to pull it off. It was a spell she and Dorian had perfected years ago - or years from now, she thought with a guilty pang. When the two of them put their heads together they had been an unstoppable force. They’d developed dozens of spells together, some entirely of their own invention and others they had reverse-engineered from hints in ancient texts. This particular spell she had used many times to remain undetected by Fen’Harel’s agents and, judging from his reaction, he had never suspected it. _Good_ , she thought with a deep satisfaction as she narrowed her eyes and stared directly into the face of her longtime enemy. He raised a confused eyebrow in response.

The footfalls passed close by them, then came to a stop a dozen paces away.

“Could have sworn I saw something,” said a man with a Ferelden accent.

“I didn’t see anything,” said the second. “But yelling ‘apostates’ at the top of your lungs is a good way to be sure we never catch any,” he scolded. “And there’s supposed to be wild elves in these woods. The ones with the marks on their faces. Rather not run into any of them if we can help it,” and he sounded genuinely concerned at the idea. A small smile spread involuntarily across her lips. Solas did not look particularly amused.

Whatever the first man had heard about the Dalish, apparently it was enough to make him wary of continuing. “I don’t want to run into any wild elves either,” he assured his companion.

The footsteps resumed then as the Templars headed back in the direction they came, passing by where they hid and continuing on. Once she could barely hear their voices in the distance, she released the energy covering them and felt it drift easily back into the Fade.

“Fascinating,” Solas said as the spell faded, though the curiosity on his face was quickly replaced with a frown. “It seems I am at a distinct disadvantage.”

She picked herself up from the ground and, after a moment’s hesitation, leaned down and offered him a hand to pull him up as well. He took it gratefully and she braced herself against her staff as she truly had to put her strength into the motion to help him to stand. She released his hand quickly and brushed herself off, chasing the stray leaves from her clothing.

Solas extended a hand toward her face and she froze suddenly, her heart jumping to her throat. But he merely plucked a leaf she had missed from her hair, above her ear, showing it to her before he released it and it drifted lazily to the ground once more. She did not thank him.

“What’s wrong with you,” she asked bluntly. He looked exhausted, his eyes dull and the skin beneath them dark.

“I am not certain,” he admitted. “I do not recall feeling this way before. Perhaps I merely exerted myself too much too quickly. Navigating the eluvians required what little strength I had.”

“What do you need, then?” she asked. “Food? A lyrium potion?” He considered this for a moment before he answered.

“Sleep,” he finally said.

“Sleep?” She stared at him in disbelief. “You slept all day.”

“I am aware,” he replied flatly.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Fine, then. I’ll find you somewhere to sleep.” And without further discussion, she continued down through the forest toward the coastline that she knew must be somewhere far in the distance.

 

* * *

 

It took her another hour to find a suitable place to camp, and by then the moon had risen high above them. She chose a small outcropping of rock that showed no sign of recent inhabitants and would shield them from the wind. They spoke little as they prepared their camp, once again falling into remembered tasks from long ago. She circled the stone formation, preparing and testing magical wards around the perimeter while he pulled a bundle of furs and a small portion of the food from their packs. They ate quickly, and again in silence, before each laid down on their furs.

She turned her back to him and he did the same, and yet she laid awake for a long time, listening to his breathing shift into the easy rhythm that told her he had found sleep. She resisted the pull for as long as she could, but she had not spent the day sleeping and the long hike had tired her. Finally, she found herself dreaming again.

When she opened her eyes, she was greeted by a bowl of cheerful, blooming embrium that were perplexingly familiar. She stared at them for a moment before realizing she was reclining on a cozy, white sofa, her head resting against one of its arms. She sat up suddenly, realizing where she was.

Skyhold’s rotunda stretched up around her and she peered high into the rafters where Leliana’s crows had been housed. They were empty now, neither birds nor cages remaining, leaving only a clear view to the roof above. And the library looked different too, now that she considered it. A line of important-looking chairs encircled the balcony above her, though all were empty.

She looked at the bottom floor last.

His murals were there - or, no. That wasn’t quite right. Some murals were there, and there were most certainly his. It was easy to recognize his hand now. But they weren’t the murals she remembered, and suddenly they pulled and blurred at the edges of her vision, making it difficult for her to see them as anything but a mess of color and line. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the paint itself didn’t quite want her to see it, but of course that was ridiculous.

Finally, her eyes found him in the center of the room, as he always already was. The modest desk that he had covered with texts and tomes Josephine borrowed from all over Thedas was gone, replaced instead by the enormous table from her war room. He sat in the same chair where he’d always sat, wearing not the borrowed Dalish garb she’d last seen him in, nor the shining armor of Fen’Harel. Instead he was dressed as the man she loved had dressed, the exhaustion gone from his features, his eyes bright and cheeks full.

The sight of him stole the breath from her lungs.

“Aneth ara,” he greeted her with a kind smile.

She nodded at him, remembered to breathe, and then asked, “Is this - this is your memory of Skyhold?”

“Partially,” he answered. “Though I added the sofa in the hope it would be a comfort.”

“But, the sofa was here,” she said, brow furrowing in confusion.

“It was here when you were,” he nodded, and then she realized - this was Solas’ memory of Skyhold from a time long before when she knew it, a time long before she had ever existed.

The thought was unsettling.

“Why are the murals blurry?” she asked him, rubbing her eyes. It was difficult to look directly at them, like they were scurrying away from her gaze.

“Ah.” He looked at the walls then, a shadow passing over his gaze. “I am obscuring them.”

“Why?” she asked, perhaps a touch more incredulous than she intended.

“A wonderful question,” said a familiar voice from the alcove that lead to Skyhold’s courtyard, and a tall man stepped out from the shadows.

He was an elf, though she immediately recognized him as having more in common with Solas and the other ancients she had encountered than with her own people. The man was unusually tall and was dressed not in the fine armor she had come to expect of Solas’ people, but instead a simple woodsman’s outfit with a long cape. When he swept the hood back from his face, he revealed a pair of sharp cheekbones and a square jaw, as well as violet eyes that were smaller than those of most Dalish. White vallaslin marked his brown skin and his length of greying hair was gathered in a thick braid that hung down to his shoulders.

The man crossed the distance from the alcove to the sofa in a few long, graceful strides and plopped himself down next to her with unexpected enthusiasm. Solas crossed his arms across his chest, one eyebrow raised in something that looked distinctly like disapproval. The man extended a hand to her, and when, after a moment’s hesitation, she placed her hand in his, he bent down with an exaggerated flourish and planted a whisper of a kiss on her knuckles.

She stared at him.

“I am Felassan,” he told her with a grin as he raised his head once more. “Perhaps you have heard of me? I have certainly heard much about you.” He shot a smile at Solas, whose mouth was slowly twisting into a grimace. The looks between them were so bizarre, the effect so immediately disarming, that she had to bite down on her lip to stop herself from laughing. She was reminded of an older sibling teasing a younger, even more so when she noticed the blush spreading across Solas’ face.

“I’m sorry - who are you?” she asked Felassan, ending the staring match that Solas was losing. But it was Solas who answered.

“He is an agent of Fen’Harel.”

“Ah, _was_ an agent,” Felassan corrected. “But quite recently I found myself released from my duties and free to wander about this world as I please.” He reclined against the back of the sofa, placing his hands behind his head and extending his long legs so he could cross them at his ankles. “And it does please me.”

“What damage have you caused in a single day?” Solas sneered.

“Oh, you think too little of me, my friend. You always have,” Felassan replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“I saw you in my dream,” she told Felassan as the puzzle of the last day’s events slowed pieced itself together in her mind.

“Shh!” He reached a hand over and patted her shoulder. “You must not say such things too loudly around my friend here,” he gestured at Solas. “His poor heart can’t take it.” Solas flushed deeper, his eyes two steel daggers aimed at Felassan’s throat.

She grinned, despite herself. Seeing Solas so far back on his heels was a gift, and one she hadn’t experienced in a very long time.

“Solas was there as well,” she offered.

“How perfectly scandalous!” Felassan countered with an eyebrow waggle and faux outrage. “What fascinating dreams you must have.”

Solas huffed, a little sigh of annoyance. “Ass,” he mumbled under his breath.

She couldn’t help herself.

What started as an undignified snort quickly devolved into a belly laugh that echoed terribly off the stones of the rotunda. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but it did little good. Next to her, she saw that Felassan looked endlessly pleased with himself. She chanced a glance at Solas across the room, assuming that her outburst would have sent him retreating. But instead, he looked back at her, cheeks still flushed and yet a small smile growing across his face.

And that ended it.

“What an odd thing you are,” Felassan mused as she regained her composure. “Not like us and yet not quite like yourself, either.”

“Not like myself?” she asked him.

“Well, no. Not really. Something out of place. Your eyes, perhaps.”

She frowned at him. “My eyes are out of place?”

“Not out of place on your lovely visage, of course,” he explained. “But out of place with the rest of you. A tree before the seed has been planted. Summer’s breeze in the dead of winter. A crescendo before the melody ends. ”

She cast a worried look at Solas, unsure how much he had already revealed and also how much she should reveal. Felassan continued talking, as if it were his favorite thing to do.

“And speaking of - I wasn’t in your dream. You barged into mine, uninvited! Of course, I would have invited you, had I known you then. But the fact remains that you somehow made your way into my dream, which is-”

“Unusual,” Solas finished.

“Very,” Felassan agreed. “Is this something you do often?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “A spirit guided me to your dream, I think.”

“A spirit?” Solas asked her. “Did you recognize it?”

“It appeared first as a raven, and then - it looked like Wisdom,” she told him.

Solas and Felassan shared a passing glance.

“What in the world could Wisdom have wanted you to learn from _that_?” Felassan wondered.

“I have no idea.”

Solas tented his fingers, apparently absorbed in his own thoughts. She turned to the man next to her again.

“You said you were an agent of Fen’Harel?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “And why don’t you seem more concerned about that? You are Dalish, lest my eyes deceive me. Should you not be running to your Keeper by now to warn of misfortune and danger to befall your clan?”

She ignored his questions and asked another of her own. “How long have you been awake?”

Felassan narrowed his eyes at her, though she suspected it was more out of curiosity than any desire to seem threatening. “And why do you know so much?”

Now it was their turn for a staring match, which Solas eventually broke.

“Enough, Felassan. She knows because I told her. And I am interested in the answer to her question as well - how long, _precisely_ ,” he stressed the word as if the answer would be different if he had not, “have you been awake?”

Felassan stroked his chin several times before answering. “Oh, a decade. Perhaps two. Or … more? It’s so difficult to mark the passing of time now,” he smirked.

“Long enough to thoroughly entangle yourself in the politics of this world’s largest empire.” Solas scowled at him again. “Though you may no longer be one of my agents, I believe my orders were not to attract any unnecessary attention to yourself.”

“The attention was completely necessary, I assure you,” Felassan smiled back. “You know how I have always detested such details, brother.”

“Brother?” she asked without even attempting to disguise the shock in her voice.

“Brother-in-arms,” Solas quickly clarified.

“Yes. Mythal forbid you might think us kin.” Felassan rolled his eyes.

“You fought together, then?”

Felassan nodded. “We were Shalelanis, at a time when it was not a cursed thing to be called.”

“I - I don’t think I understand,” she said. “I don’t know that term.” She’d done her best to learn as much Elven as she could, when she no longer had Solas to translate, but she was woefully helpless without her books and notes.

“Well, of course not,” Felassan agreed. “We were forgotten.”

Something about that turn of phrase sent a chill down her spine. She wasn’t quite ready to consider why.

Solas stood, then, walking away from where she and Felassan were seated on the sofa, toward the blurred patches of color on the walls. He looked back, his eyes meeting hers, and inclined his head toward the mural.

“It is a long story, but it is mine. And I would like you to know.”

Words she would have killed to hear, not that long ago. Words perhaps she did kill to hear, she thought, remembering Dorian’s stricken face.

She stood, and crossed the rotunda until she was standing beside him.

“Tell me,” she said.

He passed a hand across the first mural and she watched it take form.

 


	7. Stories

Shapes swirled into being beneath Solas’ touch. Eight golden figures, abstract bodies and faces, with one at the forefront, her brow adorned by a crown of horns.

Mythal, she thought. The Evanuris in their glory. And surrounding the golden figures on either side was a pack of howling wolves.

The same wolves Solas had painted to surround the icon of the Inquisition upon its founding.

She stared at him, eyes wide.

As certain that as he had seemed before, he now hesitated. He was focused on the murals, tracing his fingers across the lines he had drawn ages ago - unfathomable ages ago. Behind them, Felassan huffed impatiently as he moved from the sofa to the giant table in the center of the room.

“Better out than in!” the ancient elf offered as he leaned against the war table. Solas ignored him. They waited in an awkward silence while Solas continued to stare at the fading frescos, his mouth tight and his brow furrowed.

Finally, she took a step closer. Reached out to where his fingers grazed the smooth plaster on the wall. Took his hand in hers. Brought it down to her side.

He turned then, and looked at her.

“Tell me,” she asked again.

Solas glanced down at their hands, then back to her eyes and nodded. Felassan watched the exchange curiously, but said nothing.

She let go of Solas’ hand and he began.

“The Evanuris, as you know, were our leaders, our generals, kings, and eventually gods. They were our Guardians, Keepers of the People. Whatever else they may have become, this was what they were meant to be.”

“Politicians, brother,” Felassan cut in. “As usual, you romanticize everything. Even in the early days, long before you were born, they cared more for offerings and statuary than they did for the wellbeing of their People.”

“Their motives decayed over time, yes,” Solas agreed. “And have a care, _brother_ ,” he sneered back at Felassan, his tone suddenly edged and dangerous. “Few would accuse Fen’Harel of undue compassion toward the Evanuris.”

Felassan merely shrugged at this and waved him on.

“But generals are generals, and not foot soldiers. The Evanuris concerned themselves with protecting the People’s lands, ruling our cities,” he paused. “Expanding our influence.”

“Conquering anybody who stood in our way,” Felassan offered.

She looked up at the wolves again, their precise similarity neither comforting nor entirely unwelcome.

“And who are the wolves?” she asked.

“We were the Shalelanis - Protectors. Ostensibly, we were sworn to protect the People. And, at times, we were called upon to do just that. More often, however, we were tasked with protecting the Evanuris themselves.”

“Become powerful enough, and you’re going to need a good bodyguard,” Felassan explained from his perch on the edge of the table. “Become more powerful still, and you’ll need a whole host of bodyguards, each sworn to die for you. And once your rival sees that you have a pack of bodyguards at your disposal, he suddenly realizes he needs his own, bigger, pack.”

She considered this, her mind swimming with the faces of all the stone wolves she had seen carved into the rocks of the Dales and the Emerald Graves, and far beyond. “So you were soldiers, each sworn to one of the Evanuris?” she asked them.

“And, by extension, to the followers the Evanuris guarded. The vallaslin,” Solas' eyes traced the tattoos that had returned to her face. “They showed us who belonged to our masters. We knew who had been deemed worthy of our protection at a glance.”

“And … why wolves, then?” she wondered. “All the statutes, your paintings. Were they merely symbols for the Shalelanis?”

“Ah, the statues!” Felassan grinned and clapped his hands together. “Now that’s one bone I really must pick with the Dalish. More statues of us than all of the gods combined, and the Dalish assume that all of them belong to you,” he gestured at Solas.

“I did not ask for statues,” Solas quickly replied, but Felassan merely rolled his eyes and continued.

“The Evanuris had a form they considered sacred. Something they could achieve that no one else could - which of course was complete nonsense. Plenty of others were perfectly capable of assuming the form. It was merely forbidden to do so, punishable by whatever eternal torture Elgar’nan conceived of that century.”

Solas frowned and squared his shoulders, pulling his hands further down his back. “You are getting ahead of yourself,” he complained.

“No,” Felassan countered. “I’m getting ahead of you. That’s an entirely different issue.”

“Then the wolf was the form reserved for the Shalelanis?” she asked. 

“Yes. The wolf is intelligent, practical. It can be vicious but is also loyal to its own. It was a form the Shalelanis chose for ourselves, with the approval of the Evanuris, of course.” The contempt was obvious in his voice.

“Symbolism aside, it scared our enemies half to death, and that was good enough for me.” Felassan grinned at her, and she could see in him what was underneath - a smile a little too wide, too filled with teeth, enticing in its deadliness. Both he and Solas had become something more than Elvhen, she suspected, after spending so much time in their chosen form. Spend enough time living as a thing, whether that thing was wolf or Inquisitor, and one would become like it. She wondered if the same was true of the Evanuris.

Solas turned for a moment, waving his hand across the next block of shapes. Then his eyes found hers again.

“I have told you that Elvhenan was far from the idyll imagined by the Dalish. It was beautiful, yes. And our connection to the Fade, our use of magic-”

“Being in this world is like trying to see the pebbles at the bottom of a muddy creek.” Felassan yawned. “Though some of the pebbles are quite interesting,” he added as an afterthought.

Her heart sank, but she willed her face not to betray the despair she felt. Felassan hadn’t noticed, distracted as he played with the hem of his cloak. But Solas’ eyes were on her.

“A surprising perspective from one who so recently risked his life to affirm the importance of this muddy creek.”

While she appreciated Solas’ rebuff, she really wished he might have abandoned the metaphor that relegated her and her kind to occasionally interesting pebbles. Felassan was unfazed.

“Don’t confuse my newfound fondness for certain aspects of this world as complacency with its overall condition.” Slowly, pointedly, Felassan turned and looked directly at her, though his words were still for Solas. “And I will extend you the same courtesy.”

Well then, she thought. First blood to Felassan. Though she knew the barb wouldn’t sting Solas as deeply as he imagined. She was only too aware that, whatever her precise effect was on Solas, it was certainly not enough that he would forget his disdain of her world for even a moment.

Still, Solas was looking rather murderous from his place at in front of the second mural. She supposed it might be time to intervene, and the mural that had taken shape behind him told a strikingly familiar story.

“Andruil,” she said as she stepped toward the wall. “Hunting in the Void.”

At the right side of the panel, a huntswoman in deep green armor stood proudly with bow in hand and quiver upon her back, the tips of her arrows just peeking over her shoulder. In the center of the span, a cavern. Stalactites dangling from above and veins of bright blue lyrium entwined throughout the rock. At the bottom, a chasm that split the cavern’s base. Inside, a swath of black paint interrupted only by a pair of red eyes staring out from the Void.

Finally, at the far left side of the panel, was Andruil again - changed. Her stance was different, bow pointed down, arrows tipped with red. Her armor was ebony, save for odd triangular protrusions at her shoulders, her left forearm, her shins. And her eyes - Solas had not depicted them in the first version of her. But now they were two dark slits emanating a wispy trail of red smoke that curled around her cheeks and beyond the edges of her face.

“Red lyrium,” she breathed.

Oh no. No.

This was worse than she had ever imagined.

Behind her, Felassan sprung forward from his perch against the war table, suddenly very attentive.

“How do you know about red lyrium?” he demanded.

“That’s … a long story,” she replied.

“It’s one I would like to hear. One I would very much insist upon hearing.”

There is was again - that wolf’s grin. That smile that wasn’t a smile. The danger beneath the warm exterior.

“Perhaps another time,” she offered, and she knew he would keep her to it. She turned to Andruil’s painted face again.

“What happened? The stories say she hunted … something in the Void. How could she have found red lyrium?”

Solas resumed his tale somewhat haltingly. “Andruil offered her aid to Ghilan'nain upon her ascension.”

“When Ghilan'nain became one of the Evanuris, you mean? A god?” she asked. Solas nodded.

“There was a rite of passage undertaken by a candidate for godhood. Something that both proved the individual’s worth and also was a means by which they secured and created their source of power.”

“The orbs?” she guessed, and Solas nodded again. She had the distinct impression that Felassan’s eyes were boring a hole in the back of her neck.

“The Evanuris were each powerful mages in their own right. But, for the People to think of them as gods, they needed something more.” He looked around the rotunda, then up at the wooden rafters above, considering. She followed his gaze.

Suddenly, the expanse above them _bloomed_.

A thousand beautiful flowers in every color she could imagine appeared before her eyes, opening their petals as if it were the first day of the spring and they were shaking the frost from their leaves.

“Expectations shape reality in the Fade. Thus, it is more mutable. Potential is limited only by one’s experience and imagination. Prior to the creation of the Veil, these things were true in the waking world as well, albeit to a lesser extent.”

With a wave of his hand, a breeze swept through the blooming blossoms that framed the rotunda’s roof. As the gentle wind swirled and danced around them, the flowers shook their petals loose and rained down upon the inhabitants of the lower level. She watched as pink and red and white specs drew closer to her, until they glanced off her nose and eyes and cheeks and made their way to the ground.

It was a ridiculous, sentimental, grandiose way to demonstrate his point. She was doing her very best not to be charmed.

And failing.

Felassan caught a petal between his fingers and promptly lit it on fire. It smouldered to ash.

Really, his reaction was much more appropriate to this sort of display, she thought as another petal skimmed across her nose.

“Magic, creation, of any kind requires energy,” Solas continued. “And drawing magic from the Fade through the Veil requires quite a bit of energy, as you are well aware. This is why mages tire quickly when they must perform several spells in quick succession, or a particularly large spell. It is also why they rely on lyrium potions to replenish their energy as needed - or to supplement their power for a difficult spell.”

“But if the Veil weren’t there,” she said, following his thinking, “If it didn’t separate us from the power in the Fade, then the amount of energy needed to cast any spell would be much, much smaller.”

“Yes,” Solas smiled at her and her traitor heart nearly tripped over itself in its rush to jump to her throat. He didn’t seem to notice.

“There were still limitations, of course. And the Evanuris were not summoning simple lightning bolts or barriers. They were forging spiraling, crystal cities from whole cloth - specks of dust and droplets of water became palaces of unparalleled beauty and form. They created new creatures, plants, beings. It was an immense undertaking.”

“So they needed more power.” She looked at the twisting blue lines in the mural’s cavern again. “More lyrium?”

“An everlasting, eternally replenishing source of highly-concentrated lyrium. In fact, the source of lyrium.”

Dawning realization swept over her and crashed like an icy wave down her spine. Her ancestors, her _gods_ , had been absolute fools.

For years, she and Dorian had poured through every library that would admit them, scouring any texts they could find that might give them the slightest notion of what Solas had planned or what had happened to cause such upheaval in Elvhenan in the first place. They’d come up with dozens - maybe hundreds - of theories, each more preposterous than the last. Now it was as if a thousand disparate pieces of text, tiny segments of ancient documentation and speculation, were aligning themselves before her.

And the resulting picture was absolutely terrifying.

She didn’t realize that she’d clasped a hand over her mouth until she saw Solas staring at her with growing concern, worry etched in the lines that framed his eyes.

“The titans,” she whispered. It wasn’t a question, but the answer was clear on his face. “Each orb contained the heart of a titan.” She let the words come slowly, tried to get used to them as they fell from her lips, tried to think of how the words sounded and felt - anything but what they might actually mean.

Profanities had become a difficult thing for her since the events of the Exalted Council. She had no gods left to invoke, and the wide variety of curses involving the Dread Wolf were obviously unsuitable. Any use of _fenedhis_ felt particularly inappropriate. For the most part, she had found herself using far fewer than she ever had in her youth. But there were moments when nothing else would do, and at these times she was left with an old friend’s favorite.

“Well, shit.”

“You can say that again,” Felassan agreed.

“Did you know what they were when you did this?” she demanded, looking between both of the ancients in the room. “Did you understand that they were alive? That they had … entire cities and-”

Felassan interrupted her, his curiosity finally overcoming him.

“How can you possibly know that?” he asked her.

“Because I’ve seen it!” she shot back with a fury she didn’t anticipate. “Because I’ve walked through the expanse inside a titan. I saw the city within and subdued the guardian at its heart - though I certainly didn’t kill it or claim it as my own!”

Felassan rounded on Solas. “Who is she? _What_ is she?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Solas frown at him. She might have turned to comment upon the rudeness of his questions as well, but she was working through something much more important, more dire, than whatever ancient rivalry was driving the two of them.

“She is what she appears to be,” she heard Solas say. “And as for who she is … that is a longer story.”

“One that would best be told _by me_ , and preferably after _this_ long story has finished.” She waved her hand at the murals as she spoke.

“At the current rate, this story is likely to be finished some time in the next age.” Felassan yawned again, likely to demonstrate his boredom. “And since I already know the finer points of our fair empire’s destruction, perhaps you’ll excuse me as I attend to more pressing matters in Orlais.” Felassan dipped low into an exaggerated bow, his tall frame curving gracefully toward the floor as he waved his hand in a parody of the Orlesian courtiers.

“Orlais?” It was the last place in Thedas she could imagine an elf like him, though she recalled that he had mentioned Briala in the dream she’d seen before.

She had only just worked out all the pieces of one puzzle - she had no desire to stumble through a second, particularly if it was going to have equally disastrous implications.

“Oh, yes!” Felassan grinned as he pulled himself up from his bow and pulled his hood back over his head. “Some fascinating things going on in Orlais as of late, and I wouldn’t dream of missing a moment of it. And you, brother,” he raised an eyebrow at Solas. “You could make your way to Val Royeaux with the utmost haste.”

“And how precisely would you like me to do that?” Felassan had apparently touched something of a nerve, judging by Solas’ annoyed tone. “If you expect us to travel on foot, we will not reach Orlais for weeks. Yet if you would simply give me the passphrase-”

“Oh ho!” Felassan guffawed, which only served to deepen Solas’ scowl. “I’m simply not sure you have earned that trust yet, my friend. But this one,” he pointed at her. “Yes. I think I shall tell her. After all, we both know you won’t force it from her and …” Felassan paused, his strange violet eyes searching her face. “And I sincerely doubt she will entrust it to you.”

Solas crossed his hands over his chest, the tips of his ears red. Felassan leaned down to her with a conspiratorial smile.

“You’re going to just love this, my dear,” he whispered in her ear. “ _Fen'Harel enansal_. The Dread Wolf’s blessing will open the way outside of Ostwick.”

She stared at him. “I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean,” she said in a tone that was nowhere near a whisper. “But if that’s your idea of a joke-”

“I would never dream of it!” Felassan defended himself with mock astonishment that she could accuse him of such a thing. “In fact, it wasn’t even my idea.”

With a flourish, he swept away from her, his long cloak trailing behind him.

“Until we meet again, at which point I very much hope the dull stories will be finished and the interesting ones may begin!” Then, with a wave, Felassan was gone.

She was left alone with Solas in the Fade. Which wasn’t an usual thing, not really, she told herself. She watched him compose himself -unclench his fists, pull his arms behind his back again, the blush fading from his ears. He looked, as he had since the moment she’d lost him, like a man who carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders.

“This passphrase?” she finally asked.

“It will grant us safe passage through any of the eluvians Briala controls,” he explained. “With any luck, we may find an unbroken mirror within a few days’ journey.”

“Outside of Ostwick,” she muttered quietly, undecided as to how much she should disclose to Solas until she knew what he had in mind. “But - what is in Orlais?”

“I have no idea,” he admitted. “I assume Briala is there and I suspect that Felassan has managed to ensure that he is an integral part of her plans. The events unfolding now in Orlais are the precursor to the peace talks in which you participated at the Winter Palace.”

The Winter Palace …

… was not a thing she could think about right now. She cleared her throat and backtracked to something even worse.

“The red lyrium, then,” she began. “Where did Andruil find it?”

Solas turned toward his mural. “Within the titan. Though we did not realize it at first. Mythal believed it was simply another wonder, if an especially dangerous one, her daughter had found within the Void. Andruil and Ghilan'nain returned from their hunt victorious, and Ghilan'nain took her place among the Evanuris.”

“Victorious?” she interrupted. “Meaning Ghilan'nain’s orb contained the heart of that titan, the one with corrupted blood?”

She saw only the back of his head as he nodded.

When Bianca Davri had explained to her that red lyrium was infected with the Blight, she had realized it was a very bad thing. It wasn’t until later, when she understood the truth of what lyrium truly was that she began to see just how bad. She hadn’t expected it to get worse.

“Andruil was different when they returned,” Solas went on. “She had fused the red lyrium to her armor and weapons, but she was changed in other ways as well. She had always been aggressive, argumentative. But now she was paranoid and violent. She instigated fights with her allies and enemies alike. She demanded sacrifices,” he said with a disgusted sneer. “Mythal was concerned that she would upset the balance of an already strained peace between the Evanuris.”

“So Mythal subdued her daughter and tore the red lyrium from Andruil. She shattered the corrupted armor into fragments and buried them deep underground. Mythal did not realize, however, that Andruil was not the only person who had been exposed.”

“Ghilan'nain’s orb?” she asked.

“Yes, that was one issue,” Solas agreed. “As well as Andruil’s Shalelanis. Her wolves had accompanied her on the hunt.”

She opened her mouth to ask a new question but it never left her lips. Her breath rushed from her lungs as she felt her entire body jerked backwards, and then again. Solas turned to her, concern washing over his face, when she realized what was happening.

The wards around the campsite had been activated.

Her eyes flew open and sunlight blinded her. Nearby she could hear a familiar pair of voices yelling “Apostates!”

 

* * *

 

Solas woke only a moment later but by then she had already leapt to her feet and grabbed her staff. The Templars were bearing down upon the small outcropping where they had made camp.

The two humans looked young, impossibly young. She wondered how recently they had been recruited to the Order, and whether they have ever faced a mage in battle before. Even if they had, she realized, they had certainly never faced a pair of mages unrestrained by the rules of the Circle.

It hardly seemed fair.

They asked for no surrender and so neither did she. Instead, she laid down a line of fiery runes a few paces in front of her and stood her ground. The first Templar - apparently the senior of the two, judging by his more elaborate armor - lunged toward her with his sword raised high. He never cast a glance at the ground.

Fire erupted around him as his boot connected with her runes. His scream was terrified and agonized, but lasted only a moment. Then, he was nothing but a pile of ash on the ground before the wide eyes of his companion.

The second Templar stood frozen before her. His fair skin was dappled with pockmarks and his armor was shining as if it had never seen battle before.

“Maker save me,” he whispered. Then, he turned on his heel and ran.

She raised her weapon.

A bolt of flame had already coalesced at the end of her staff when she felt a hand upon her shoulder.

“He is no threat,” she heard Solas say behind her.

“You’ll feel differently when he returns with a full regiment.”

“No, I will not,” he assured her.

Her flames faded, returning whence they came, as she watched the young man crashing through the underbrush in the distance. He stumbled and fell to his knees, casting a terrified glance over his shoulder before he picked himself up and bolted again. She let him go.

She took a step forward so she would no longer have to feel the weight of Solas’ hand on her shoulder and lowered her weapon.

The sun was high and the late morning air was cool and comfortable. They must have slept for hours. Around them, the forest was filled with life - birds calling to one another through the bare trees and small creatures rustling among the fallen leaves on the ground. She remembered this place, but it had been so long since she last saw it that it seemed more like a dream than anything else.

She felt nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay on this chapter! It's been a busy two weeks gearing up for the holidays. I hope you enjoy and you are welcome to poke me with any questions/comments here or on Tumblr. 
> 
> http://soetzufit.tumblr.com/
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. Crossroads

It was another full day of walking before the steep incline of the Vimmark Mountains gave way to the rolling foothills outside Ostwick. Travel had been exhausting, and Solas had needed to sleep twice more since the Templars had interrupted them. Both times she had laid down as well, and both times sleep had not found her. Both times she had laid beside Solas, back to back, and listened as he drifted into a peaceful sleep. Both times she stirred once she knew he slept and wandered around the perimeter of their camp, testing her wards and watching the woods. She was agitated, her thoughts overflowing with images of wolves and elves and glowing lyrium veins. She scanned the distance for any sign that the young Templar had returned.

She wanted the rest of Solas’ story. Hearing it in the Fade, however, worried her. She learned from a young age to guard her dreams from the whispers in the darkness. The rotunda had felt safe - deceptively so. Such was always the case in the dreams she shared with Solas over the years and he was a formidable force in dreams, she knew. But still, both the subject of his story and the emotions it was stirring within her made her doubt that the Fade was the safest place to have such a conversation. Even with him there, creating the boundaries of their environment, building a floodgate with his own thoughts to keep the darkness at bay, she had felt the scratching at the back of her head and seen the shadows at the corners of her eyes.

No, she thought. Stories of all-powerful ancients and thieving gods were tales best told in the waking world.

She wondered whether Solas had been waiting for her in the rotunda.

But both times when Solas woke, he merely glanced at her curiously, stretched, and then packed up their things in silence. Frustrating as it was to have to rest every few hours, she had to admit that sleep had served him well. He was moving more easily now, hefting their pack over his shoulder with an ease he hadn’t shown hours ago, and the color had returned to his cheeks and lips.

Not that she needed to be looking so closely at his lips, she reminded herself.

They were nearly to Ostwick before she broached the topic with him. Most of the journey had passed in a silence which neither of them seemed particularly eager to break. Sweeping speeches, appeals to his decency and goodness were the only words she had said to him in a long time. Conversation was a forgotten ruin they had yet to rediscover.

Finally, though, curiosity got the better of her.

“When did the Evanuris know that something was wrong with Ghilan'nain’s orb?”

Of course he had been one of them too, but she extended him the courtesy of referring to the gods as if they were separate from him, as he had always chosen to do. Regardless, she knew that, despite whatever distance he insisted had been between them, he too had crafted an orb. He too had slain a titan and claimed its heart.

Solas considered her question for a long moment as they continued toward the coastline. The trees were sparser here, with fewer branches and leaves near their bases, and she could taste the salt in the air. The wind was warmer than it had been farther up the mountain, but still Solas pulled his hood over his head to shield himself.

“Ghilan'nain was an unusual person,” he eventually said, long after she had assumed he had decided not to answer her. She looked over to him and raised an eyebrow.

“How so?”

Again, the response was slow.

“Before she became one of the Evanuris, she served Andruil. She was not of particularly illustrious birth but she distinguished herself in other ways. She had a gift for creation, ingenuity. Unfortunately, since she was bound to Andruil, she focused that gift into the creation of increasingly bizarre and dangerous creatures for Andruil to hunt.

“Once Ghilan'nain forged her orb, however, her creations took a different shape. She created new horrors that, fortunately, were quickly destroyed. But she also obtained leave from Andruil to attempt more elaborate, controversial experiments. Andruil was only too willing to provide followers - sacrifices - for Ghilan'nain’s use. And Ghilan'nain used them to create hybrids, magically merging beasts and monstrosities with our own kind.

“Still, this was initially mistaken as simply the next evolution in Ghilan'nain’s _art_ ,” he sneered. “And so Mythal and the others did not see the change as they should have.” Solas let out a long sigh and, when she turned to him again, she saw the frown that had settled on his face. “It is unfortunate. Ghilan'nain had exceptional talent and potential. She was one of the most skilled mages I have ever known, and her vision was extraordinary. But her abilities were distorted, polluted, long before she ever touched the titan’s heart.”

More dreams of Elvhenan shattered, she thought. Not that she had many dreams left to harbor of her people’s ancient history.

“Did something happen, then, that made Mythal realize?” she asked.

Solas delayed again, leaning down to search the ground for a possible trail or signs of travel. But her eyes were just as skilled as his, and she knew the terrain better here. There were no tracks to see, not the faintest hint of a path.

He was stalling.

“Tell me,” she asked again.

He looked up from the ground and smiled at her before standing once more.

“I am sorry,” he told her. “The history of my people is not a pleasant one. I will tell you as much as you wish to know, but I do not want to overburden you.”

“I _want_ to carry this burden,” she told him without hesitation. “I _always_ wanted to help you carry this burden.”

And that, for all his poise, made him pause. She saw his jaw work, the corner of his mouth tip down.

“Yes,” he answered quietly before resuming.

“It became apparent that there was something different about Ghilan'nain’s orb when her vallaslin was given to her followers. I explained to you once what the vallaslin the Dalish wear once meant to my people."

What a reductive way to describe what had transpired between them in Crestwood, she thought.

“But I omitted some details of that process.”

She sucked in her cheeks and thrust the hood of her cloak over her ears and forehead. They were walking, side by side once again and she reasoned that she might be able to get through this confession a bit better if she didn’t have to see him, even in her peripheral vision.

“Such as?” she asked once she had sufficiently calmed herself.

“Vallaslin bonded us to the Evanuris who ruled us, but the markings were much more than a visual indication of servitude. They magically bonded a slave to his master. A life of service to the Evanuris was a life forfeit, and we knew this. We had little choice but to accept if it was offered to us, for while service came with its own dangers, we were at least protected and considered precious to the one we served.

“The lyrium in the Evanuris’ orbs had many functions. One was to trace the markings on the faces of their slaves, thus ensuring we would die for the ones we served.”

Vallaslin, she thought. _Blood writing_. She hadn’t realized it was titan’s blood.

“How?” she asked, her voice suddenly very small.

Solas huffed at this. “Through sacrifice, of course. The Dalish believe we were immortal, and it is true we did not die of old age. But we could certainly be killed - and the Evanuris were no different in this regard.

“The vallaslin were a safeguard. If the Evanuris were mortally wounded, they could call upon the connection forged between themselves and their slaves - sacrifice a dozen, a hundred, a thousand of the People to ensure they didn’t fall. The titans’ blood linked slave to master, ensuring our lives were utterly subject to their whims.”

She imagined that she could feel the weight of his eyes upon her, though she didn’t dare to look toward him. She kept her head bowed low, her hood hanging over her brow, as she watched her feet trudge through the grass.

She was so tired.

It wasn’t exhaustion from a day without sleep, though that hadn’t helped. She was tired of the work, of striving, of always, always guessing what might hold everything together and always being wrong. She was tired of not being strong enough and also of the drive that told her she _had to be_ strong enough. She wanted nothing more in the world than to fall into the grass, pull Solas down beside her, and steal the breath from his lungs with her kiss until they closed their eyes and slept.

She had tried and failed. She hadn’t been enough. What could possibly be enough in this world that had always been corrupted, had always been doomed? How long would she hate herself, she wondered. She was no immortal with time on her side. She hadn’t asked for another chance, or wanted one. Let someone else do the work. Let someone else strive and fail. Let someone else make the choice that condemned their world. Let someone else see their dreams become nightmares and watch as their pride was swept out to sea.

The rain began to fall then - the first few droplets of an afternoon shower beating softly against her hooded head and dripping onto her nose. She swept her fingers across her cheeks and remembered the marks that now marred them again. The day those tattoos had been placed upon her face was one of the proudest of her life. She had counseled a dozen or more younger members of her clan when their time had come to choose which god best represented their goals, the contributions they had hoped to bring to their people, believing she was guiding them to a lifetime of loyalty and veneration of their traditions. For nearly all of her life, even after the Breach and the chaos that followed, she had wanted to learn the history of her people. But the more she learned, the worse her despair. She was as a fool adrift in the sea, gulping down the saltwater that she knew would eventually kill her.

“What was wrong with Ghilan'nain’s vallaslin?” she asked, when she finally felt able to speak.

“They were red,” Solas quickly answered. “Every tattoo on every one of her slaves.

“To further complicate matters, Andruil’s wolves had consumed red lyrium at her instruction. Their transformation was slow, at first merely making them stronger and more aggressive. The other Evanuris ordered their Shalelanis to seek out and consume the corrupted blood - they could not bear to think Andruil or Ghilan'nain might become more powerful. Mythal alone ordered us to abstain from the red lyrium, wary after seeing the changes it had brought in her daughter.”

She latched onto the ‘us’ - something that confirmed what she had long suspected.

“You were one of Mythal’s then?” she asked. “One of her … protectors?”

“For a time,” he said quietly. “As you might expect, tensions between the Evanuris escalated quickly when the bulk of their fighters were becoming increasingly violent and uncontrollable. Eventually, I was tasked with negotiating a peace.”

“You?” She hadn’t meant it to sound disapproving, but she heard him chuckle in reply.

“Do the Dalish not say that only Fen’Harel could walk among both clans of gods without fear? I suppose that is true,” he conceded. “I was seen as a relatively impartial party - someone who had a foot in each camp, so to speak.” He hesitated again, and she finally peered over at him.

“What is it?” she asked, and she saw his brows knit.

“Felassan would tell this story differently.”

“I will have to ask him,” she said, suddenly quite interested in doing so.

“He will tell you that I was not well-liked by either side. I was … cocky. Hot-blooded. I had risen to a position of authority quickly because I was clever, and I knew it. I suppose I was quite insufferable.”

Silently, she marveled that he thought he had changed so much.

“I was a good choice for such a task because I would never have allowed the matter to rest until it was settled. I would never have accepted defeat. And when all the Evanuris and their protectors finally agreed upon a peace, I was awarded with the highest honor they could bestow.

“And I wanted it,” he said bitterly. “I believed I deserved it. And, foolishly, I believed I would be able to change the world.”

There was a time when she might have encouraged him, but she remembered the consequences of such comfort all too well. She too had believed she might change her world, her people, her heart. Once she had been surrounded by allies who had fortified her and now she was alone, haunted by the ghosts of those she had betrayed. Any comfort she could offer would have been hollow.

But she was, at her core, a fool and a sentimental one - though perhaps those things were always found together. So while she could not offer sympathy with her words, she reached out to Solas until her hand found his. His hand was warm and steady as his fingers entwined with hers, and the small squeeze she gave them was the closest thing to encouragement she would allow herself to offer. She was uncertain how he would respond, but he didn’t pull away from her touch. Instead, he too tightened his grip upon her fingers, and she wondered whether he feared he might float away if he released her as much as she feared she might sink.

And so they crossed the remaining distance in silence as the empty heavens opened above them and the rain spilled down in earnest. When the hidden entryway to the temple ruins finally appeared before them, neither she nor Solas commented upon its familiarity. They walked its overgrown and dilapidated hallways without mentioning that they had both lost something here. In the dreary stillness of the temple’s shadows, she found herself thankful that they would not discuss the day that she had sent her forces to stop him from reclaiming yet another relic, yet another tomb, and how he had responded in kind.

When they entered the sanctum containing the eluvian, Solas wrapped his thin cloak more tightly around his shoulders, and she wondered whether he too felt the whispers of the dead at their backs.

 

* * *

 

She hadn’t seen the Crossroads since the day she had learned the truth, though she and Dorian had tried and failed many times to return to the strange space that existed somewhere between the Fade and the waking world. Each time they’d received word of an active eluvian, the Dread Wolf’s forces quickly ensured that it was either too well-guarded to infiltrate or simply moved the artifact completely. And at least once, here at the ruins in Ostwick, they had decided to destroy one of Fen’Harel’s mirrors rather than allow his forces to continue using it.

Time passed differently here, that much was apparent. But without the chance to ever truly study this realm as she wanted, she had never really understood how it was possible that she and Solas could pass from the Free Marches to Orlais in a matter of mere hours. She recalled, however, that the Crossroads seemed to share some of the characteristics of the Fade itself, in that it mimicked the appearance of those things which were near to it. And so she marked their crossing of Thedas as she watched the changes in the strange, bright realm that surrounded them. The very air shimmered as if they had wandered into the Waking Sea itself, with the grassy path beneath their feet eventually changing to white sand littered with broken shells. Within an hour she spotted the golden statutes in the distance that told her they were passing near Kirkwall, and finally the sea gave way to great green expanses that signaled their entry into Orlais. Only then did she ask what had been on her mind for hours.

“Why Val Royeaux?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him peer over at her. “A good question,” he said with a nod. “But one for which I do not have an answer yet.”

She bit the inside of her cheek hard, to stop herself from spurting out something unduly harsh. She still wasn’t entirely successful.

“You’re telling me that, with less than a year until a would-be god splits open the Veil with an extremely powerful magical artifact that you handed him, you don’t know why we’re trekking halfway across Thedas in _the wrong direction_ from where he’s going to end up?”

If the grin he gave her was supposed to be charming … well damn him, it was, but that didn’t make it any less infuriating.

“I did not hand Corypheous the orb. And you did not suggest an alternative destination,” he shrugged at her.

“Because I thought you had a plan,” she shot back.

Solas shook his head. “My only plan was to find you.”

She shoved that into the back of her mind with as much force as she could muster and pressed on. “Then why Val Royeaux? Why aren’t we trying to find the orb?”

Solas sighed, his gaze fixed upon the eluvian in the distance, drawing ever closer. “Simply put, Felassan told us to go to Val Royeaux. Felassan knows both the location of the orb and the identity of the Venatori agents who are aware of its location.” He hesitated for just a moment before turning to her. “And Felassan is unwilling to share that information with me until we meet in person.”

She scoffed as she came to a halt in front of the eluvian. “And why should you trust him?”

“He is my oldest friend,” Solas said simply, as though the thought that Felassan could betray him had never crossed his mind.

“My spies never brought me any word of him,” she told him honestly. “I had never even heard his name until I saw him in your dreams.”

Something dark passed behind his eyes and he looked down at the walkway beneath their feet. The grass of the Orlesian Heartlands had formed itself into a stone floor here, closer to the mirror itself, and the area surrounding them was lined with half-formed walls and baskets filled with fruit and wheat.

“Felassan was dead,” Solas explained. “I killed him before I ever met you.”

Why did it sound like an apology, she wondered. Then, she remembered.

“That night at the campfire - in the dream,” she said, haltingly. “You killed him then? While you were both sleeping?”

Solas gave her a nearly imperceptible nod in response.

“Why?”

He ran a hand along the golden frame encasing the eluvian, but it showed no response to his touch. She had whispered the passcode at Ostwick, and she hadn’t shared it with him since. He stepped away so that she might move closer to the mirror before he replied.

“Felassan awoke too early and he stayed too long,” Solas told her. “He learned to love what he saw in this world. It became real to him.”

“Oh.”

She couldn’t think of anything else to say and so, instead, she approached the eluvian and touched her hand to its cool glass face. The magic of the place answered her and she watched as the mirror rippled and twisted beneath her fingers. Before the image had settled enough to see what awaited them on the other side, she stepped in.

She passed through the shimmering barrier separating the Crossroads from Thedas itself, the soft magic of the eluvian dancing along her hands and face. And just as soon as she was free of the mirror’s embrace, her fingers grazed something solid. She attempted to stop her forward momentum as she found herself nearly crashing into the rough plaster wall that was only an arm’s length away from the eluvian. Apparently this particular mirror had been stored within a tiny room, with no visible exits and only a single etched window which was far too small for anyone to pass through. Quickly, she tried to call over her shoulder to Solas that he should wait, but she didn’t get the words out in time.

With the same momentum she’d had a moment before, Solas passed through the eluvian. She saw his face long enough to register his shock before he collided with her back and she slammed into the plaster wall, her breath forced from her lungs.

“Ir abelas!” he offered hastily at the base of her neck. “I will go back through-”

But she heard the telltale _whoosh_ that marked the eluvian’s closing, and felt the distinct change in the surrounding air as they were separated from the Crossroads. The way was closed.

An uncomfortably long moment passed before she heard him mutter “Fenedhis” under his breath, and a few other elvhen words she didn’t know - though she was certain Felassan’s name was mentioned.

For her part, she focused her attention not on the awkwardness of their present positioning, but instead on the wall she had been thrust into. She pressed her ear against the cold stone and could make out the distant din of voices somewhere beyond. Though she couldn’t make out what they were saying, the voices were relatively close - more muffled by the walls between them than distance.

She leaned her staff against the corner wall in the small room and used her now free hands to run her fingertips along the stone in front of her. Solas, having finished muttering ancient elvhen curses, shuffled back slightly and allowed her as much room as possible to inspect the wall.

“They got the eluvian in here somehow,” she whispered as she bent her knees and ran her fingers along the lower half of the wall.

“There is an indentation shaped like an archway,” Solas observed from behind her. “If you reach a bit farther out, you should feel it.”

She moved her hands toward the edges of the wall and, as he said, she suddenly felt the slight indent that told her this room certainly had a hidden door. Now that she knew where to feel, it took her only a moment to find the concealed mechanism, positioned waist-high, that gave way with a gentle _click_ when she pressed her finger into it.

The narrow door opened forward slightly, and she pushed against it slowly as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness beyond. With the light of the small window to guide her, she made out familiar shapes in the new room - wooden shelves stacked high with pitchers, plates, and other delicate tableware, all decorated with a stylized crest bearing a silver swan. By the looks of it, the eluvian had deposited them in one of the finest pantries in all of Orlais, and the voices she’d heard a moment ago were clearly coming from outside the wooden door positioned beyond the long line of shelves. Behind her, she could feel Solas attempting to peer over her shoulder.

She supposed, all things considered, it could be worse.

With the door opened all the way, she now had room to turn and face Solas again. He stepped away abruptly, his back against the mirror once more.

“I would suggest leaving our staffs here,” she said. “I realize we may be more vulnerable without them, but if we are, as we appear to be, in the middle of some Orlesian estate, I can’t imagine a pair of elven apostates will be well received.” He nodded his agreement and leaned his staff in the same corner where she had rested hers.

“I have noticed it is rare in this age for mages to cast without the aid of a staff or similar instruments,” Solas began as he stepped past her and into the pantry itself. “But for those, such as yourself, with particularly seasoned focus, drawing magic through the Veil need not require such an aid.”

Once he had passed completely through the archway she shut the door to the hidden room, rolling her eyes in the darkness that closed around them. Let him think she hadn’t been aware of this, hadn’t noticed that he seemed perfectly capable of casting with or without a staff, hadn’t herself discovered this talent years ago. She pushed the plaster door flush against the wall and heard the tiny _click_ that told her it had latched back into place.

Which left them standing in a darkened pantry, dressed like the “wild elves” the Orlesians believed terrorized the Dales.

First things first, she figured. Clothing was simple enough to change, but the markings on her face would give her away in an instant.

Though the small room was already dark, she closed her eyes as she reached out to the Fade, calling a tiny sliver of light to accompany them. She imagined it forming into a thin white ribbon, hovering gently above her hand, and she opened her eyes to find that it had happened just so.

Solas stared down at the shimmering moonlight in her palm, mouth slightly agape. She tried very hard not to smirk.

With a flick of her wrist, she sent the ribbon above their heads, where it gently traced a spiral pattern. And now that she could see what she was doing, she reached down and took each of his hands in hers. She felt his wrists stiffen as she guided his hands up to her face, finally placing his thumbs on her cheekbones and his fingers along her jawline.

“Take them away,” she whispered, and watched his eyes widen in realization.

“Are you certain?” he asked, shaking his head slightly. “I would not-”

“Solas,” she silenced him. “I mourned this loss once, long ago. I will not mourn it again. Please,” she entreated. “If you have the strength to cast the spell, then do it.”

She noted the objection in his eyes, but he didn’t ask her again. She felt the warmth of his fingers against her cheeks before she saw the same blue light that had cut through the damp air in Crestwood, and then she closed her eyes.

She had forgotten how peaceful it had felt, her memories instead focused upon what happened after. But as his spell caressed her face, she felt a sense of ease the like of which she hadn’t known in years.

It lasted only a moment.

“Ar lasa mala revas.”

Her eyes flew open.

“You do _not_ need to say that,” she hissed at him, and he quickly dropped his hands back to his sides.

“I do, in fact,” he whispered apologetically. “It is a part of the spell. I promise I would not have subjected you to … unpleasant memories … unnecessarily.”

“Fine.” She waved a dismissive hand at him before moving closer to the door to better hear the voices beyond. But Solas kept talking.

“Fortunately,” he continued in something a little too loud to be a whisper, and certainly not quiet enough for someone currently hiding in a pantry, “Removing modern Dalish markings is a much simpler task than removing my people’s vallaslin.”

She cast an annoyed glance over her shoulder that she hoped conveyed how unnecessary a history lesson was at this particular time, but he was staring up at the wisp of light she had summoned.

“It was a spell of my own devising, of course. The vallaslin were never meant to be removed by anyone other than the one who had bestowed them. Thus, Andruil removed Ghilan'nain’s marks when Ghilan'nain was made an Evanuris. Mythal would have removed mine, but-”

“You removed your own vallaslin?” she asked very quietly, and against her better judgment, as she rested an ear against the wooden door. He smiled in response.

“I had to attempt the spell on myself before I subjected anyone else to it. Thankfully, I marred only my own face in the process,” he explained, running a finger across the small scar on his forehead.

An interesting revelation that she might have pondered longer were it not for the footsteps she could hear approaching the pantry door and Solas’ chattering behind her.

There was still the problem of their clothing, which would easily mark them as trespassers, but she knew an old trick of Dorian’s that might suffice.

She closed her eyes and focused all her attention on the image she held in her mind of two elven servants. Her memory of the ball at Halamshiral was imperfect, but it would have to do. She paid close attention to the muted colors of their blouses and breaches, their worn leather vests, and the simple scarves they wore around their necks.

When she opened her eyes once more, she found that both her clothing and Solas’ matched the image she had conjured. There was something dull about it, something that didn’t quite hold if she looked at it askew - a certain fullness to the blouses that was wrong, and a texture on the leggings that didn’t fit.

The voice beyond the door grew louder, the footsteps closer.

Her spell just might fool an untrained eye that wasn’t looking too closely on what they were wearing, and she had no idea how she would explain why they were closed up in a pantry. Perhaps a distraction-

And then she had the worst idea.

She turned to Solas and found him still going on about casting without using a staff and now her newest spell. If she hadn’t know him better, she might have thought he was _rambling_.

“Ah! A glamor. How fascinating. A particularly complex spell to cast without a focus, but it seems that you’ve managed it quite successfully. It wouldn’t stand up against close scrutiny, of course, but perhaps with a distraction of some-”

She reached up, put her hands on either side of his face and kissed him full on the mouth.

He stopped talking.

It was the single worst idea she had ever had. And that included time magic.

Then, he kissed her back.

There was a moment of awkwardness as they each strained to remember how this had worked twenty years ago. But in an instant, everything _fit_ and all she could think of was him, and how his lips tasted just as she’d remembered - sweet with a hint of something familiar that she never could place.

The steps paused outside the door.

She moved her hands to the back of his neck and laced her fingers together, drawing Solas down toward her. He followed.

It was everything she wanted, real again and before her. But it couldn’t be - he couldn’t be. Even a child learned not to reach for a flame after burning her hand once.

But his kisses were fervent, desperate, as he put his hands to her hips and drew her close. She tried to keep her thoughts on the feet that were now just beyond the pantry, but her heart had other designs. By the time his tongue swept between her lips, she had started to forget.

Worst idea, she reminded herself.

Worst idea. Worst idea, she thought over and over again.

Yet while her mind screamed reminders, her mouth would not obey. She ran her lips across his jaw and felt his grip on her waist tighten. She didn’t realize they had taken a step closer to the pantry shelves until she felt the wood dig into the small of her back and heard the tinkle of disturbed porcelain behind her. She gasped - more noise for the feet that hadn’t moved since they paused at the pantry door.

It was when she traced the tip of her tongue across his upper lip that she stopped thinking. She felt the shudder run through him before he breathed _vhenan_ into her mouth and pressed her into the shelves with another embrace.

The pantry door flew open, spilling light across the spotless dinnerware that lined the walls. The sliver of light above her head vanished, escaping back to the Fade too quickly to be recognized as anything but a speck of dust in the light.

“What in the name of-”

They separated at once at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, faces flushed and breathing ragged. The woman at the door was an elderly elf, dressed neatly in a simple white dress and apron, and scowling fiercely at the pair of them.

“Andraste’s blessed ass!” the cook swore at them. “Who let you into my kitchen?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year everyone! Hope you all had a wonderful holiday and thanks again for reading.
> 
> A Solas POV of this chapter is available here:  
> http://soetzufit.tumblr.com/post/139518879922/a-very-long-while-ago-someone-on-ao3-asked-for


	9. Slaves

Cook, who had provided them with no other name, briskly escorted the pair down an ornate hallway, the heels of her boots clicking rhythmically against the polished marble tile beneath their feet. Their footwraps, on the other hand, made almost no sound as they hurried along behind Cook, and she hoped that the older woman would be too distracted by other recent events to wonder at the difference. Cook was short, even for an elf, standing at least a head below her and substantially more below Solas. Even so, Cook had each of their wrists clutched in a surprisingly strong grip, pulling them along on either side of her.

“Disgraceful. Should have the pair of you whipped,” Cook grumbled. Solas visibly tensed at the threat, the air around him shifting in a way that worried her. She chanced a glance over at him and shook her head when she caught his eye. Two bright pink spots still stained his pale cheeks, she noted with surprise. He was more adept at selling their “cover story” for being found in the pantry than she had anticipated, in every way filling the part of the lovestruck servant caught misbehaving.

He gave her a quick nod in response, and she felt the magic he had begun to summon recede into the Fade. But there was something odd in his gaze, a coldness that worried her when he turned away. Surely he wasn’t angry with her for saving their skins? She was certain her quick thinking had been the difference between Cook scolding them as foolish servants and turning them over to the estate’s guards.

For this estate must be large enough to have its own contingent of guards, she thought. Cook was escorting them through what appeared to be the servants’ quarters, but even here the wealth and influence of the house’s owner was apparent. Every dozen paces or so, they passed a delicate swan that had been sculpted into the plaster wall itself, and each swan had been adorned with silver leaf. Heavy, voluminous drapes lined the windows on the opposite side of the hall, similarly embellished with a pattern of silver swans against a deep blue background.

“This is precisely what I told the Comtesse would happen if we had to hire temporary help,” Cook muttered in a way that was difficult to tell whether it was directed at them or if she was merely complaining to herself. “Bunch of good-for-nothing, wild, _lecherous_ -” Cook threw a disapproving glance over her shoulder, “Untrained strays out to rob us blind and impose upon the Comtesse’s hospitality.”

When they reached the end of the hall Cook made a sharp right turn, prodding them through an open door.  The storeroom beyond contained two large, wooden tables, along with several barrels and sacks filled with additional supplies. Sitting atop the tables were a few neatly-folded piles of clothing, and at least a dozen identical masks.

“I am far too busy to deal with this sort of foolishness tonight,” Cook chided them in a heavy Orlesian accent. “When I am finished with the two of you, I am going straight back to my kitchen and if there is even a smudge on any of my plates, I will deduct that from your pay for this evening’s work. Do I make myself clear?” Cook squinted at them through narrowed eyes, and at that moment she felt truly grateful that the elder woman didn’t have time to “deal” with them at length. She nodded in response.

“Good. Now you, girl,” Cook addressed her. “What is your name?”

“Sera,” she blurted out and saw Solas turn toward her out of the corner of her eye. It was the first name that had come to mind and, all things considered, the real Sera would likely approve - not so much at being caught in the throes of passion with an elven man, but for the boost to the Red Jennies’ reputation once word got around that one of their number had caused such a scandal in a noble estate.

“Marcher, eh?” Cook asked upon hearing her voice.

“Er, Kirkwall. Yes.” Again the first place that came to mind.

Cook let out a sharp laugh. “Hah! Refugees from Kirkwall? You ran from one disaster directly into another.”

“Right. Yes,” she enthusiastically agreed, having absolutely no idea what the woman was talking about. “Awful luck,” she added for effect.

“Your luck will get no better if you keep sneaking around with the likes of him,” Cook said, tilting her head at Solas. She stared at the old woman, wondering at Cook’s astute assessment of the situation for just a moment, until she turned to look at Solas, who showed no reaction to Cook’s rebuke. His cheeks were still flushed from - what, embarrassment? - she wondered. Yet despite whatever unease he was feeling, nothing else about his appearance gave it away. His lips formed a thin line, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze set over Cook’s head, fixed on the wall behind her.  He was a model of prideful scorn.

It was then she realized she would have said precisely the same thing in the old woman’s place. In fact she probably _had_ said the same thing at least once or twice to some young volunteers who had found themselves carried away by love or lust or some combination of the two.

But she was not young - despite appearances to the contrary. And she knew well the consequences of allowing herself to be carried away by love - despite appearances to the contrary.

Cook scowled at Solas, poking a finger toward his chest as she asked, “And you - what is your name?” Solas finally looked down at Cook.

“My name is S-”

“Cole!” she quickly interrupted before Solas could give Cook his real name, as she was certain he was about to do. “His name is Cole,” she said again. That, she thought, Sera would not have appreciated.

Solas frowned at her and she understood his objection. Their deceit was already complicated enough without having to worry about answering to false names. But Felassan knew who they were and Felassan had sent them here. Solas might trust his old friend unconditionally, but she had seen no reason to do the same. If they were walking into some sort of trap, she wanted to do so with as much anonymity as possible.

“Cole,” Solas repeated, obviously testing how the name felt on his tongue. It took all her restraint not to roll her eyes as she wondered how she could have ever been so completely fooled by such a terrible liar.

“Fine, _Cole_ ,” Cook said, clearly aware of the glance that had passed between them. “And where is that accent supposed to be from?”

“A small village in the north,” Solas quickly replied.

She bit down hard on her bottom lip.

“The north, eh?” Cook narrowed her eyes, another question ready, when a bell rang far in the distance, somewhere deeper in the estate. “Damn it all,” she swore under her breath. “The pair of you have made me late with the apéritif! Get yourselves cleaned up, put on your masks, and go through the far door. Edgard will give you your instructions. And no more funny business!” With astonishing speed, Cook turned on her heel and ran out the door back toward her kitchen.

She stood dumbfounded for a moment, before she turned to find Solas still frowning at her. “Sera and Cole?” he asked incredulously.

“They were the first two names that came to mind,” she protested, bristling at his tone. Solas sighed heavily and took a step toward the tables behind them. “Surely you’re not thinking of actually going into this party as servants,” she asked him as he ran a hand across one of the garments.

“As impressive as your spell may be,” he replied, “I doubt it would allow two elves to simply walk out of this estate. In truth, playing the role of servants is quite possibly the safest thing we can do. We will be able to traverse the party, practically invisible, and perhaps find a route by which we can leave.”

She had to admit it was a sound plan. Her concentration was wavering, exhaustion from the many long hours of travel finally beginning to set in. There was no chance that she would be able to maintain the glamours for much longer, and certainly not long enough to make their way out of the estate. She nodded to Solas, resigned to try this his way, and allowed the magic she had sustained to slip back into the Fade.

By unspoken agreement, they each made their way to the large basins that had been filled at opposite sides of the room. She stripped out of her soiled clothes quickly and took only a few minutes to clean herself with the tepid water. When she was satisfied that she could pass as a respectable servant rather than someone who had spent the last several days wandering the countryside, she pulled on the white breeches and doublet that must be the attire of this particular household. A silver swan, identical to the one she’d seen on the dishes in the pantry, was embroidered on the doublet’s left breast. Then she turned, intending to retrieve one of the masks from the table.

She froze.

Across the room, Solas stood before the other basin, his back to her. He had removed his tunic and wore only the footwraps and leggings she had found for him back at her clan’s camp. In the dim light from the bronze candelabra that illuminated the large space, she watched as he knelt down, cupped a measure of water in his hands, then brought it over his head. She watched, though she knew she should turn away, as the water ran down the back of his neck and spilled between his freckled shoulder blades, like a river tracing its winding path between two mountains. She told herself to look away, but her feet did not obey.

And suddenly, as if he had felt the weight of her gaze, Solas turned toward her. For one horrific moment their eyes locked, until she whipped around again, furious with the blood she could feel rushing to her cheeks. Crossing her arms across her chest, she stared into the basin of water at her feet, an unending chant of _shit, shit, shit_ running through her mind. It wasn’t until the water began to steam that she realized she must calm down.

She knew what was in her heart; she was not some oblivious fool, she reminded herself. That she loved him had never been a question. But she was not so helpless and lovestruck as she had played for Cook’s benefit. She knew herself, knew her heart, and saw no sense in denying it. But she would not be a slave to her feelings for him.

Her goal was not to change her heart, for who had ever truly been successful in such an endeavor? But the stakes were too high and the chance of disaster too ominous to ignore, especially now when, for the first time, she finally had the chance to undo some of the damage they’d caused. Solas had distracted her from her duty once before, though she had not understood why he said so at the time. She could not - _would not_ \- allow him to do so again.

Behind her, she heard him clear his throat deliberately. “I have finished,” he said when she still did not turn. She was grateful for the warning, but hated that he had noticed he needed to give it.

She crossed to the table, refusing to acknowledge the shame that had lodged itself at the back of her throat. Solas had already picked up one of the masks and held it out to her as she approached. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he asked gently. She nodded and took the mask from him as he sat down at the table.

She held the delicate little thing carefully between her fingers. Josie had explained all this symbolism to her many times, but she had never truly understood the intricacies of what the Orlesians referred to as “the Game,” nor did she quite comprehend the need for the masks. She did recall, however, that Orlesian masks were meant to mark their wearers as members of a particular household, and that servants wore less elaborate versions of the unique designs created for those they served. This mask, she noticed, had been carved with the features of a lion. The painted lines framing the eyes and nose were a deep purple, and the whiskers had been painted with thin lines of gold.

“Strange,” she wondered aloud and Solas looked over his shoulder at her from where he sat at the table, his eyebrows arched in a question.

“It’s only -” she shook her head. “All the heraldry we’ve seen in this estate has been the swan.” Solas peered back at her.

“I hadn’t noticed,” he admitted, apparently surprised by his own inattention.

“The plates in the pantry, the drapes in the hallway, these uniforms,” she said, placing a hand over the embroidered swan on her chest. Solas nodded. “But these masks are lions. It’s been many years but, if I remember correctly, the lion is the herald of Celene’s family.”

“Strange,” he agreed. Somewhere in the rooms beyond them, the bell sounded again - two chimes this time. “If we wait any longer to join the other servants, our delay may attract unwanted questions.”

She nodded and refocused her attention on placing the mask over Solas’ face, drawing the strands of ribbon that would hold it in place behind each of his ears and securing it with a sturdy knot at the back of his head. When she’d finished he stood again and she took a second, identical mask from the table so that he could do the same for her.

Solas moved behind her, bringing the mask over her eyes. She placed a finger on the lion’s nose to hold it in place as he traced the ribbons over her ears and carefully tied them together. She concentrated on the feel of the mask against her skin, looked back and forth as she acclimated herself to the more limited peripheral vision it allowed her. Anything to keep her mind from the feel of his hands on her face, the knowledge of how close he stood behind her.

As an afterthought, she tucked the tips of each of her ears under her hair. It was unlikely to make much of a difference, she knew. Her stature and build would easily betray her for what she was. But if hiding her ears meant that she had to hear one less noble call her _rabbit_ , it was well worth the effort. Solas, on the other hand, would stick out like a sore thumb.

When her mask was in place, he moved around in front of her once more. It was disquieting to see his face partially hidden like this - his distinctive eyes and cheeks obscured beneath the crude mimicry of a lion. It didn’t suit him. He surveyed her as well, and she imagined she must appear equally out of place.

“Such an odd custom,” she mused as they finally turned toward the door on the far side of the room.

“Is it?” Solas asked, his voice hard again. “We simply traded one set of slave markings for another.”

 

* * *

 

Edgard, they quickly learned, was the head steward and had even less tolerance for tardiness than Cook. He chided them severely - though, of course, with typical Orlesian politeness  - when they emerged in the ballroom having missed service of not only the apéritif but also the amuse-bouche. But the steward was as efficient with his scolding as he was with everything else about the management of the estate. After a few well-chosen words, he sent them off to join the other servants, who were rushing back and forth from a staging room to the ballroom, hauling trays laden with exotic delicacies.

The ballroom itself was magnificent and decadent, and would have been the finest she had ever seen had she never been to Halamshiral. The room was organized similarly to the grand hall at the Winter Palace, with an enormous marble dance floor occupying much of the center and raised viewing balconies surrounding it on all sides. Small round tables had been set up along the balconies so groups could congregate and eat as they pleased.

The mystery of the lion masks was revealed when Comtesse Tremblay briefly paused the music to thank her guests for attending this banquet in honor of their beloved Empress. The Comtesse was an elderly woman who wore a matronly purple gown and a feathered mask crafted to resemble a swan’s face. Though Celene had been forced to delay in Halamshiral, the Comtesse explained, she had every confidence that their Empress would return triumphantly to the city as soon as she had dealt with the despicable rebels. Comtesse Tremblay’s guests cheered loudly at this, their shouts and applause perhaps a little _too_ enthusiastic. She imagined the entire city must have been feeling a deep unease about the Empress’ extended and unexplained absence.

The chimes that signaled the start of each new course - and there were so many that she eventually lost count - meant it was time to retrieve more delicate fruits, succulent meats, and frilly cakes from the servants’ quarters. In the years she had spent as Inquisitor she had never organized a party the likes of this, though she knew enough to realize how expensive the evening’s festivities must be. And she wasn’t the only one who had taken notice of the party’s opulence.

As she hurried between throngs of guests, she overheard them commenting upon their hostess’ graciousness. From the hints of conversation she could gather, importing goods into Val Royeaux was difficult at the moment. When she offered a plate of clafoutis to a table of chevaliers, she heard them marvel that the Comtesse had somehow managed to secure cherries for the dish.

“How did she possibly have these imported from the southern farms?” one chevalier wondered to his friends. “Everything I’ve heard says that the roads are entirely blocked by Gaspard’s-”

“Ah, ah!” a second chevalier at the table quickly hushed him. “This is no place for talk of such things. Besides, there are always fine things to be had in Orlais if one is willing to pay the price.”

The food wasn’t the only subject of gossip among the Comtesse’s guests. She heard, several times, whispered mentions of riots and unrest in the city’s poorer districts, and of some sort of attempt on the life of Divine Justinia. She wished, and not for the first time, that she had paid Josie the attention she deserved when her enthusiastic ambassador had tried to explain Orlesian politics. But all she could recall was that Celene was the rightful ruler, Gaspard had gathered support among some of the nobility to challenge her, and Briala had attempted to blackmail one or both of them. Everything else was lost to the fog of memory from years she had done her best to forget.

She saw Solas only a handful of times over the course of the evening, though he was easy to spot in the crowd. While she had never carried a heavy serving tray before and was certain he hadn’t either, the graceful way he glided through the ballroom belied his inexperience. His tray was perched upon the fingertips of his right hand while his left was crossed neatly behind his back. He looked like he’d been doing this for years, and she found herself lucky to take a dozen steps without worrying that her tray was about to topple to the ground. She suspected, much to her irritation, that he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

Once the _third_ course of desserts had been served, she finally found a free moment to inconspicuously lean her weight against one of the pillars that supported the roof high above. Her feet were aching after hours of work, not to mention days of walking, and she felt like she might fall asleep at any moment. Fortunately, most of the guests seemed to be making their way toward the exits, or pairing off when they thought no one was looking for romantic liaisons in dark corners. Still, a few lingered on the dance floor, caught in intimate embraces as they swirled in time to the music.

She was so tired that she didn’t hear him step behind her, and she nearly jumped when he spoke.

“Heard any interesting gossip?” Solas asked conspiratorially.

“Many things, in fact,” she answered with a weary sigh. She was eager to find a way out of the estate as quickly as possible - both so that they could discuss what they had heard and so that she might, finally, rest.

“I will be quite interested to hear them,” he said, still perched behind her shoulder. To an onlooker, it would appear as if two household servants were merely watching with fascination the nobles dancing below them, she thought with a small smile. How easy it was to assume one’s own world was the center of the universe and that all other celestial bodies were happy to be caught in its orbit.

Solas shifted behind her and she felt him lean in closer.

“I must apologize,” he said softly.

“For what?” she asked, barely stifling a yawn.

“I fear I may have acted inappropriately before.” His hushed whispers were easily swept away by the swell of the music from the dance floor below them, and she didn’t have the patience for words carefully chosen to have a dozen possible meanings.

“What are you talking about?” She placed an irritated hand to her brow as the heady smell of wine and food and sweat that filled the room began to make her head spin.

“I may have been - that is to say - I was somewhat carried away.” When she didn’t respond, he finally added, “When we arrived here.”

Oh, she realized. He was talking about the kiss. Or trying to, at least.

“It’s my fault,” she said with a wave of her hand. “It was ill-advised and I should have warned you what I had planned. I am sorry that I took you by surprise.”

She heard him move behind her, and when he spoke again it was in a whisper just next to her ear.

“You needn’t apologize.”

She held her breath.

If she turned now, she knew, his lips would be there waiting for her. She could embrace him and tell him everything that was in her heart, and she knew he would do the same. The careful control that was requiring every thread of her being to maintain could be unwoven in an instant, and her hopeless, shameless love could fill the void between them.

But she didn’t turn.

Moments passed as neither of them spoke. The quartet below played a lively waltz and she watched as colorful gowns swept over the golden marble floor. Unbidden, her memories reached toward a time when they had shared a dance like this, on a night like tonight, on a balcony not terribly far from where she now stood.

When the band stopped playing, she knew he had gone.

She spotted him a few minutes later, at the opposite end of the ballroom, picking his way through the crowd gathered near the enormous doors that opened on to the gardens outside the estate. For one terrifying moment, she thought he meant to leave without her and, faced with the possibility of losing the only person in all of Thedas who had the power to help her, she pushed off the pillar and rushed down the long balcony.

The burst of adrenaline hit her hard and fast, and suddenly her tired eyes were opened wide again. She had closed half the distance between them when she noticed that the music had not resumed and there seemed to be some sort of commotion near the door. Deliberately, she slowed her pace to something that would attract less attention, and continued upon her path. Solas was near the back of the crowd that had gathered, craning his neck above the finely-dressed Orlesians to observe something still beyond her sight.

With a collective gasp, the group at the door drew back suddenly, some turning to run back into the ballroom. She pushed past them, all concerns of pretense and proprietary gone, as she forced her way toward Solas. A few paces farther and the crowd split before her, revealing the scene unfolding just inside the doorway.

A dozen or more young elves had fought their way through the forces stationed outside in the garden. One guard, dressed in silver armor with a swan’s mask crafted into the visor of his helmet, lay at the feet of the youth who had forced his way farthest into the ballroom. Each of the intruders wore crude and ill-fitting armor that looked like it would do little to stop a properly crafted blade. They brandished a motley collection of weapons - she counted two or three staves that stood out above their owners’ heads, a handful of swords, and assumed the others must have additional blades hidden on their persons. The boy in the front, who held a tarnished old sword, was speaking to the nobles who hadn’t yet fled.

“You will surrender your purses and jewelry to us, along with any bread and meat left in your storeroom!” he shouted confidently, taking a step forward. The elves behind him moved up as well, pushing out into the hall in as menacing a fashion as they could muster. “No longer will the poor of Val Royeaux stand by and watch as the city’s food supply is squandered by those happy few who have enough coin to gobble up all of it!”

The guests surrounding her tittered with confusion, their reactions ranging from fear to disbelief. She heard one woman to her left wonder aloud whether the Comtesse’s elves were “putting on a play” of some kind. But the air in the room had gone still, tense. She knew the feeling and, instinctively, reached for her staff - only to remember that it was locked in a pantry on the opposite side of the estate. On the far side of the crowd, she could see Solas watching the events as they unfolded, his body taut like a coiled spring.

Not good, she thought.

“For too long the elves of Orlais have been your slaves, have submitted to your every whim!” the boy in the front shouted again. “Tonight we will bring justice to _your_ people, in the name of the Dread Wolf!”

The room spun.

In the fleeting second between when she heard the words and when she found him in the crowd, she cursed his name, wondering just how long he had planned to drag her along on his revolution. But as soon as she saw the horror on his face, how his jaw had dropped in shock, she knew that this plan was not his.

And that frightened her even more.

Something hit her hard in the shoulder and, in her confused and weakened state, she fell to the ground. She saw the telltale yellow feather of a chevalier’s mask flash past as she hurried to pick herself up. When she found her feet again, the soldiers she had overheard during the party had closed ranks around the group of elves and, though the “Dread Wolf’s” forces outnumbered them, she had no doubt they would make quick work of the young rebels.

She watched with wide eyes as one of the chevaliers stepped forward in some sort of lunge toward the boy at the head of the group. The elf parried, spinning away with more expertise than she would have expected, and returned the soldier’s strike. But the chevalier deflected the tarnished sword easily and, in a few more flashes of their blades, the young elf fell suddenly to the floor. Blood seeped from a gash across his forehead and the others behind him scattered in terror, rushing out through the open doors into the garden.

“And now, knife-ear,” the chevalier growled as he advanced toward the youth on the ground, “you shall learn the price of overstepping your bounds.” He raised his sword high, preparing to strike, and she turned desperately toward Solas.

She had felt the shift in the room as he summoned something from the Fade to him, and he stood with his fist outstretched toward the chevalier and his prey.

“Don’t do it, you stupid old fool,” she whispered helplessly.

But even as the words fell from her lips, she knew her plea was useless. The Dread Wolf had answered their call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to all the new readers who've found me since the last chapter posted. Thanks for all your comments here and on Tumblr - you're the best! <3


	10. Choice

A deafening crack ripped through the cool air at the ballroom’s entrance. Something unseen hit the chevalier hard in the chest. He flew backward away from the young elf, his sword arching high above the bystanders as it was ripped from his hand. It clanged terribly, a deafening ring that she felt in her teeth, when it finally connected with the marble floor. The force that hit the chevalier pushed him more than a dozen paces from where he’d stood, his back finally coming to rest against the balcony railing that overlooked the now silent dance floor. His head hung limply against his chest. The crowd scattered, pressing toward the edges of the room.

The elf on the floor stirred, blood running down his forehead and into his eyes. Now that she had a better view of him, she saw that he was older than she had first guessed but certainly had not yet seen twenty summers. He was small in both stature and build, but strong - muscles straining beneath his brown skin as he put his hands to the ground, his shaking arms straining to hold his weight. Now was the moment, she realized. The guests hadn’t seen what had happened, or hadn’t understood if they had seen. They could run for the door now and never look back.

Yet even as the boy’s arms found the strength to pick him up, the chevalier’s two companions arrived. They advanced toward the youth on the floor, ignoring the two elven servants who hadn’t the good sense to get out of their way. Solas turned to them as he ripped away the lion’s mask, his face contorted in rage underneath. He raised his hands to cast again as the men closed upon them, and this time there could be no mistaking the source of the spell.

She watched as Solas tore a burst of energy from the Fade. A powerful barrier swept over the boy’s head and crashed down upon his body, and she saw his shoulders visibly dip against its weight. And even for those who had never seen a spell before, for those who had no idea how mages protected themselves in combat, there was no mistaking it.

Chaos overtook the hall.

Those who had pressed themselves against the walls ran now, tripping over silk gowns and stumbling in their fine dancing shoes. Shouts echoed throughout as both guests and servants fled - but not the chevaliers. She noticed that the two men bore no shields, as they surely hadn’t anticipated a need for them at a formal party. One of the few advantages she and Solas could count on in a fight, she noted.

They would need any advantage she could find. The concentration and strain on Solas’ face was obvious to her, and she imagined that chevaliers who were well-trained to observe their opponents would see it as well. The spell he had summoned was taking all his power to maintain, and she watched as the color that had only just returned to his face began to bleed away once more. Still, she held her position. She must maintain whatever element of surprise she had.

One of the chevaliers approached the youth on the floor. The old soldier surveyed Solas’ barrier with an eye that she knew had been trained to seek out the weaknesses in any spell. He attempted to press the broad side of his sword beneath the boy’s chin, to make him stand. But the barrier merely shimmered, a bubble of impenetrable armor. The boy let out a gasp as he saw the sword before his face, shuffling backwards. The chevalier stepped toward him again and slapped the sword toward the boy’s chest - or attempted to, at least. When the blade bounced _back_ at him, the chevalier shook his head at his friend.

Solas’ barriers, she remembered, had the characteristic sheen of brittle magic that would break easily if struck at just the right angle. But this was a trick. In fact, the energy he pulled from the Fade was woven to ensure that the barrier was much more pliable than it first appeared. The chevalier might have struck his blade against the energy again and again, she knew. But the barrier would not shatter - it would simply deflect the blows away as long as Solas had the strength to cast. She’d seen their enemies make the same mistake many times before.

 _Their_ enemies, she thought with a pause. When had she started to think as such?

But there was no time to consider the question, as the other chevalier advanced upon Solas. But still Solas watched the boy, watched his barrier, intent upon its preservation. He never made a move to stop the chevalier, even as the soldier thrust the blunt end of his sword into the backs of his knees, forcing him to the ground. She saw him flinch at the pain, but he kept his hand outstretched as he fell, the barrier around the boy never waivering.

She looked down for a moment, tearing her own mask from her face so she could see what she was doing. Her fingers searched beneath the starched doublet until she found what she needed - a small dagger that she had always kept at her waist. She’d never been much use at close combat, but the knife was a precaution that she always preferred to have at hand.

Then, she heard him cry out. An agonized groan that set her nerves on fire.

The chevalier had pulled his sword upward and struck the pommel hard against the base of Solas’ skull, she realized. Solas lurched forward as he cried, falling to his hands and knees. The barrier flashed dangerously, but held.

It happened so fast she didn’t even register that she had made the choice.

She took one step toward the chevalier who had attacked Solas. One step, but empowered with energy stolen from the Fade, it carried her across the room so that she stood behind the soldier, close enough to see the beads of sweat dripping from beneath his hair.

She reached up and tore her dagger across his throat.

The blood pooled in her hands instantly, thick and warm, as the chevalier tumbled to the ground beneath her feet. But she wasn’t finished.

A second step carried her from the body of one chevalier to the other. A second unexpected strike put him on the floor as well.

The screaming started then as panic took the room. There were calls for the Maker and Andraste, and above all the Templars. Her white doublet and leggings were stained red, her hands covered in the blood of their defenders that she’d slain. She knew how she must look to them.

Solas was on his feet again, but barely. He looked worse than when he’d come for her in the mountains, haggard and utterly depleted. But still he moved to the boy on the ground, grabbed his trembling hand, and pulled him to his feet. The injured pair moved slowly toward the garden that lay beyond the open ballroom door. She covered their retreat, walking backwards with the small, bloody dagger outstretched. The few nobles brave or foolish enough not to have fled watched her with wide eyes.

She knew precisely how she looked to them.

Not until she felt her feet cross over the door’s threshold did she glance over her shoulder to see how Solas and the boy had fared, and found them on the stone staircase that wound down to the maze of hedges and trees below. The other elves who had accompanied the boy hadn’t gone far, fleeing only to the stairs when the chevaliers attacked. They approached cautiously, eyes on her bloodied hands and the angry gash on their friend’s forehead. Solas helped the boy to a sitting position before dropping beside him.

Her heart was beating in her ears, her body’s insistent reminder that she had pushed herself well past its limits. But, still, she was not finished.

Estate guards swarmed through the crowded ballroom, advancing upon the garden door. She was certain she would not last through another fight.

The young group seemed utterly at a loss for what to do next, but a few of the taller elves had stepped forward to help their friend from the ground. The others looked ready to bolt at any moment, more like nervous fennecs than the wolf they had invoked. She stepped quickly to one of the mages in the group, a slight young woman with long russet bangs that fell into her eyes and whose confident expression was betrayed by her white-knuckled grip on her staff.

“Who are you?” the woman asked, her voice wavering only slightly.

“Now is not the time for introductions.” She reached out, wrenched the surprised woman’s staff from her grasp, and then handed her the dagger as a replacement.

“What are you doing?” the woman demanded, recoiling slightly as the wet dagger hit her palm.

She turned her back to the group as she stepped back to the door. The magic flowed through her easily as she opened her mind to it, the whispers of the Fade calling. She twirled the staff deftly in her hands - once, twice - feeling its weight and balance while pooling energy into the small, white crystal at its end.

It would have to do.

She arched the staff in front of her, drawing a line of fire across the entry to the ballroom. The wall of flames leapt to life, climbing until it filled the doorway and licked at the windows of the second storey. It would burn out within a few minutes, she knew. But it would buy them enough time to escape.

She returned to the others, handing the staff back to the girl and retrieving her dagger in turn. “We need to leave,” she told them as she wiped the small knife on her pant leg. “I hope you have horses.”

The group cast anxious glances at each other, until finally one of the older elves who had helped their leader to his feet responded. “A carriage, in fact,” he said. “But why should we-”

“I’ll stop you there,” she said as she held up a hand to him. He shrank from her slightly, and she realized the red stains that marred her palm were more threatening than she’d intended. “Surely you’re not about to deny us assistance when this man,” she said, gesturing to where Solas sat on the stairs, “risked his life to save your friend? Or perhaps I have completely misunderstood your calls for justice in Orlais?”

The older boy scowled at her, but it was their leader who responded.

“Bring them both” he muttered quietly, one hand pressed tightly to his scalp to slow the bleeding. “We always said we would help any servants who needed us. And they are certainly going to need us now.”

The others seemed none too happy with this decision, shaking their heads at one another, but only the redheaded girl argued with it.

“Jonenn,” she pleaded with the injured boy, “they killed those men. And they’re both mages - apostates. This will bring us more trouble than it is worth.”

“We don’t have time to argue, Leval.” He winced as he found his feet, still supported by one of the taller boys. “The others will be waiting for us.”

The girl was obviously unconvinced but didn’t push the point further. “Let’s go,” Leval barked at her as the others hurried off through the elaborately-trimmed hedges of the Comtesse’s garden.

Which left her, alone, to drag Solas from the stairs where he sat with eyes half closed and one hand pressed to the back of his neck. With what little energy she had left, she leaned down and put a shoulder under his arm so he could stand. It took him a moment, but finally he was on his feet once more. A slow swirling of snowflakes heralded the beginning of a storm as she steered him in the direction the young rebels had gone.

“You must help me,” she mumbled quietly as she struggled to bear his weight upon her.

“I am trying,” Solas assured her through gritted teeth. “Did you ask the boy why-”

“No, Solas,” she cut him off, grunting as she shifted under him. “I haven’t yet found the opportune time nor method to ask why Orlesians elves are invoking your name while they ransack the nobility’s estates. Though that _does_ sound like the sort of thing you’d heartily support.”

Perhaps that was a touch more sarcasm than strictly necessary, considering the circumstances. She tried to turn her head to get a look at his face, perhaps apologize if her assessment of the Dread Wolf had been unduly harsh. Then she noticed he was smirking.

“Ass,” she muttered, not unfondly.

She half-dragged, half-carried him through the garden until they found Jonenn and his group gathered around a large and ornate carriage they had stationed at the entrance to the estate. A handful of the house’s guards were on the ground - unconscious, she guessed - and others had been bound with their hands behind their backs.

A second, smaller group of elves approached from the other side of the garden. They carried as many gunny sacks and crates as they could possibly bear, progressing slowly from their loads. As she helped Solas toward the carriage, one boy climbed on the back of the vehcile, securing the load to its roof.

“What’s all this?” she asked the woman called Leval, who had helped Jonenn into the carriage and was carefully bandaging his head.

“This,” Leval gestured at the supplies being strapped to the carriage roof, “is the _point_. We were _supposed_ to be the distraction.”

“Maker’s breath, Leval,” the boy on the roof swore. “What happened in there? You’ve got the entire city in a panic by the sounds of it.”

“It’s a long story,” Leval told him. “Did you still manage to get everything?”

“Yes,” the boy nodded as he tied down the last of the crates. “Enough food for a week or so, I’d wager. If we’re good about rationing, it could cover the entire district.”

“Better plan for two new mouths to feed.” Leval cocked her head at the pair of them as if they couldn’t hear her, then reached into the carriage where Jonenn sat, a wave of shining energy radiating from her hand and over the boy’s wound.

“Leval,” she said, stepping forward with Solas still leaning on her shoulder. “You’re a healer?”

“Yeah,” the girl snapped back at her. “What of it?”

She wasn’t in any position to ask, and it was clear the girl didn’t trust her. But still she had to try.

“Please,” she implored, casting a worried glance at Solas, who had drifted closer and closer to sleep on their walk to the carriage. She knew that rest was mostly what he would need to recover, but the blow the chevalier had dealt worried her.

At first, Leval frowned at her, looking over Solas with the indifferent eye of one who had been asked to magically heal far too many scraped knees and bruised elbows in her lifetime. But finally, Leval nodded and told her to put Solas on one of the benches inside the carriage - a feat she was barely able to accomplish before he fully lost consciousness.

She plopped down on the bench next to him, leaning her head back against the rich velvet upholstery behind her, and closed her eyes for just a moment …

 

* * *

 

 

The forest was black and burning. What few trees were left should have turned to dust long ago, and yet they still smoldered angrily. When she breathed she tasted only ash and the smoke stung her eyes so that she could barely see.

Ah, she thought. Here were the dreams she remembered.

Instinctively, she looked over her shoulder toward the place he always stood - the white wolf in the night. But for once, for the first time, he wasn’t there. Just a line of burning trees, as far as she could see.

And then a movement at the corner of her eye. A thing darting in and out of the fire.

She turned and ran to find him.

What she found was something else.

She gasped when she saw its face - Dorian’s face. And yet, not. It was as if it wore her friend’s face like a mask. The features were there but contorted like it didn’t know how to move them as he would. She recoiled from it.

“My apologies for the dramatic entrance,” it said in a voice that was his but, again, not _quite_. “I required a shape that would get your attention, and you have spent much time thinking of this face as of late.”

“What are you?” she demanded.

The thing wearing Dorian’s face leered at her, teeth bared and eyes hungry. “You may think of me as an interested party. And what I have observed thus far has left me very interested.”

“If you have been observing,” she countered cautiously, “then you must know I am not some young apprentice to be easily swayed by whatever promises you bring. I have fought your kind before and won.”

It tipped Dorian’s head back and let out a terribly loud laugh. “You have no idea how right you are, do you?” It was endlessly amused by this, its unnatural smile widening even more. “You have fought _me_ before and won, and I do not like what I see of my fate in your mind.”

This chilled her, despite the fire surrounding them. “When did I face you before, demon?”

“I prefer _spirit_ ,” it corrected. “And it is not precisely a question of before, for such words are no longer useful to you, are they?”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” she replied carefully.

“Of course you do,” it said with narrowed eyes. “Did you think we would not notice, in this realm where time holds no dominion? We know you are out of place, out of time. We can see it, smell it on you. Do you have any idea how many of my kind I had to destroy to get to you first? Even now, I hold them at bay.”

“Am I supposed to thank you for that?”

“You _should_ ,” it told her. “What I want from you is so simple. Something you must do with or without me. A mere trifle,” it assured her. “What the others would ask of you is so much more work.”

“And what is it that you want?” she asked, against her better judgment.

“The simplest thing in all the world,” it assured her with what was supposed to be a comforting grin. “All I ask is a _choice_.”

“Oh,” she gasped before she could stop herself. “I know you, demon.”

It cackled joyfully as she took a step away from it. “Choice! Spirit!” it intoned.

“I once offered you power and coin and passion, and you denied me,” it reminded her. “But you will not deny me again.”

“You think not?” she asked it, recalling how simple it had been to turn down the spirit’s empty promises before. “Then I hope you have found something more interesting to offer me.”

“Oh, I offer you nothing,” it laughed. “At least, not yet.”

“Then when?” The conversation had lasted longer than it should have, she realized. She should not be asking such questions.

“When it is time to make your choice,” it scoffed at her, rolling Dorian’s eyes like she had asked the stupidest question in all the world.

“And what choice is that?” she whispered, worried that she already knew the answer.

It laughed horribly, for far longer than it should have, for longer than any human could have held breath. She backed away from it again before it finally spoke. “Oh how excruciatingly perfect!” it grinned through barred teeth. “You know! You already know the choice. But you cannot admit it to yourself so you need _me_ to say it for you!” Its cruel laugh ripped through the smoky air again.

“Very well,” it said, its voice a mocking imitation of Dorian’s concern. “I will put you out of your misery, dalen.” It stepped toward her, closing what small distance she had made. “One day the time will come when you must choose whether you _trust_ him - whether you _believe_ him. Will he see that - how did you put it?” It grinned terribly.

“ _Var lath vir suledin_ ,” it spoke to her with her own voice, her own anguished cry that still haunted her every time she looked into the eyes of the man who had called her his heart. Her breath caught and she faltered as she stepped backward. She tripped on a fallen branch and fell to the ground, landing hard on her backside. The demon crouched in front of her.

“The time will come when you must decide whether you believe in him,” it said, speaking in Dorian’s voice once more. “Whether he’s _changed_ ,” it offered patronizingly. “Whether he’s willing to forsake everything that he is for everything that you are.

“Or,” it offered with a snarl, “whether he’s lying. As he always lies.”

“It’s not that simple,” she spat back at it. “You don’t know him.”

Its wicked laugh stabbed her as it roared again and again, dropping a hand to steady itself on the ground as Dorian’s body shook with mirth.

“ _I_ don’t know Fen’Harel?” it choked out between cackles. “I have known that old wolf for longer than you can possibly dream. He was my brother once, before he betrayed us all. But I suppose he hasn’t told you that. And you think you know him - why? Because he allowed you to share his bed for a few months? For a mere blink of his existence?”

And while she knew the demon had said so specifically to disarm her, while she knew she shouldn’t let it get the better of her, and while she knew that what they had was more than this, she felt her strength flee from her and the doubt set in.

Because what if - _what if_ \- it were all true?

“What do you care for the heartache of an old woman, spirit?” She whispered as she stared at the scorched earth beneath them, her eyes brimming with tears. “Are there not more important choices in this world upon which you can focus your appetite?”

“In fact, no,” it said, almost pityingly. “For, once again, it will be your heart that determines the fate of this world. You will need me, when the moment is upon you.” Its voice was kind, close, and when she looked up she might actually have been staring into Dorian’s eyes for a moment. “I will help you,” it assured her.

And then its head shook and its body grew black and enormous, fur sprouting from where the face had been and covering every part of it, until a giant wolf with six red eyes stood before her, its great maw close enough that she could smell its foul breath as it towered over her.

“And in exchange,” a voice rumbled from somewhere deep within, “I will devour your choice like a ravenous wolf.”

She thrust herself off the ground, embers singeing her palms. And she ran.

She barreled through the close rows of burning trees, the flames licking at her arms and legs. The giant paws of the thing thundered close at her heels. The ground shook with every step it took. And still she could feel its hot breath at her neck.

The burning forest broke in front of her as the ground beneath her feet suddenly ran out. She faced a cliff and saw nothing but darkness beyond it and below. The beast’s teeth were at her back, the blood pounding in her ears and pain pulsing through her burning legs. There was nowhere to go but down.

And so she fell, screaming.

Darkness surrounded her, but the wolf did not follow. She fell, and kept falling, cold air rushing past her body and into her ruined lungs. She was terrified.

But then, a pair of strong arms encircled her, warm and comforting, though she could not see their owner in the darkness. With time, the embrace calmed her frayed nerves and the scream ended, finally, though still they fell.

 

* * *

 

She was still falling when she awoke, legs kicking out in a panic as they struggled to find purchase. It was not until she opened her eyes and felt the gentle sway of the coach that she recalled where she was. She bit back tears as she desperately shook the dream from her mind and placed a hand against the cool glass of the window to steady herself. She had encountered demons in her dreams before, as had most mages, and she knew better than to allow their warped logic and petty promises follow her into the waking world.

But still. There was something in the way the snowflakes fell down upon the city that was too close to the memory of ashes swirling around her in the dream. She shivered, though the carriage was warm and bright.

Suddenly, they lurched violently, the carriage wheels protesting the shift from the smooth stone streets of the estate districts to the dirt roads of Val Royeaux’s alienage. She had heard stories of this alienage, of course, but nothing anyone had told her could prepare for the sight of it. They passed through an enormous gate set into towering wooden walls that stretched far into the distance. Leliana once told her that somewhere close to ten thousand elves lived here, confined to a handful of tiny districts and dilapidated houses. If there were to be city guards checking on entries into the alienage, none stopped them.

Smoke rose between the neglected apartments, conjuring more memories of the smoldering forest from her dream. She focused on her breathing, on the swell of happy voices and warm bodies that surrounded her, and on the sturdy bench beneath her. Jonenn, Leval, and several others were all cramped tightly in the coach, with some sitting on the floor or in each other’s laps. It was loud, jovial. The young group was celebrating their successful raid. It was a wonder she had slept through this much noise, she realized.

After a few minutes, the road carried them down a small hill and the alienage closed around them. The street here was little more than an alley. If she had opened the carriage window and reached out, she would just be able to touch the buildings.

Her hands, she thought, as she looked at her fingers spread wide on the glass. They were red with the crusted blood of two men she had killed, and the faint metallic smell that lingered left her dizzy and nauseous. She turned away.

Beside her, she felt Solas’ head resting heavily on her shoulder and she flinched, the demon’s warning fresh in her mind. Leval, who sat on the opposite side of Solas, took note.

“He’s alright,” the healer mage offered. “He’s just resting. I gave him a draught to help him sleep.”

“A sleeping draught?” she asked. Such concoctions were notorious for preventing dreams, and she could hardly imagine Solas approving. “Why didn’t you just give him a lyrium potion?”

Leval scowled at her. “Listen, lady. I don’t know what it’s like up in the estates, but lyrium isn’t exactly easy to come by in the alienage. You asked me to help him, and I did.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. The girl was right, of course. Sleep was sleep, dreamless or otherwise, and it was clearly what he needed. “And his head?”

“Nasty blow,” Leval confirmed. “But I got it fixed up. He’ll be fine - ‘cept for the headache.”

“Thank you,” she offered, though it felt inadequate even as she said it.

“I saw what he did - your man,” Leval said with a nod to Solas. “He saved Jonenn.”

“He’s not my -” she began and then stopped herself, realizing quickly that it was as pointless as ever to attempt to define what Solas was to her. Leval simply shrugged.

“Well, whatever he is. I may not agree with your methods, but he certainly saved Jonenn’s neck back there. And I thank you for it.” The little smile that spread across Leval’s face when she looked across the carriage at Jonenn made it clear just how grateful the girl was.

“Leval, in the ballroom,” she said, “Jonenn mentioned the Dread Wolf.”

“Yeah,” Leval replied, one eyebrow raised.

“Why did he say that?”

Leval stared at her for a moment, her confusion apparent.  “Well I don’t know,” she finally answered. “It’s just what you say, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” she pressed.

“Well, it’s what everybody says when they do this sort of thing, you know?” Leval explained. “It’s like - well they’re all afraid of those wild elves in the forest. And the wolf - he’s some god or legend or whatever the wild elves made up. A story. To keep them safe.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “The Dalish have other gods as well.”

“Yeah, sure. But the wolf’s the only one that even _they_ fear,” Leval countered.

“But if he’s a Dalish legend,” she continued, “why are the elves in the city using his name?”

Leval let out a snort. “Well that’s simple, isn’t it? These nobles, they’re not afraid of a couple skinny kids from the alienage. They’ll cut us down soon as look at us. But tell them you serve some big, scary wolf god - the same scary wolf god those lawless elves in the Dales believe in - and now you give ‘em pause. Now they don’t know what you’re capable of.”

“Strike fear in the hearts of your enemies?” she asked, quietly.

“Exactly,” Leval grinned.

Solas’ head slumped against her as the carriage bounced again. A story to keep them safe, she thought as she watched the steady rise and fall of his chest. It was a kinder portrayal than he’d ever received from her people, she supposed.

But was it true? And did it matter, really, if he would bring them to the same end once more?

Whatever else the black wolf had done, it had nurtured the seeds of doubt that had long ago taken root in her heart.


	11. Roots

She slept fitfully, in painful starts and stops, and embers swirled around her each time she closed her eyes. Solas, who they’d placed on the floor beside her, slept as soundly as he always had. It had never mattered whether they rested within a tent so saturated from the endless rain of the Storm Coast that it dripped down upon their heads at night, or if they slumbered side by side beneath sheets spun from the softest Antivan cotton Josephine could find. Always, when he slept, he was at peace. The finest nights, she recalled as she finally sat up and put her back against the cold wooden wall, were those when they returned to Skyhold following a lengthy excursion.

The journeys had been the best of it for her, one of the only redeeming facets of her time spent as the Inquisitor. Where everything else had crumbled and caved in upon itself, her memories of riding through lands she had never dreamed to see remained. As the years went by and she lost more and more of what had mattered to her during that time, she clung desperately to those things she could keep safe in her memory. It was only quite recently that she found she could no longer recall the precise color of the sky over the western desert.

And so, journeys home had always been bittersweet for her. Skyhold was a place to reunite with the others and to rest, but lingering wasn’t in her nature. The seat of the Inquisition was, she supposed, comforting in its way. But too often it was a place where duty and responsibility weighed her down like armor, stifling and inescapable. She was always ready to leave again.

Solas, on the other hand, was brightest upon their returns. She could see the eagerness in his steps, the way his smile was lighter than usual. Each time the fortress revealed itself upon the horizon, he transformed. He held himself straighter, taller, as if the mountain air itself fortified him.

At the time, she’d had the arrogance to think it was because of her.

Every homecoming brought more questions, more decisions. Hours after she passed through Skyhold’s gate she would still be in meetings with her advisors or entertaining the newest procession of diplomats. The wine would be heady, the food too rich, and the conversations loud and insistent.  But she would nod and smile courteously, always acutely aware that - despite any influence they had gained or the stories people told of her - she was ever an outsider at the mercy of a handful of human politicians.

But then, when the candles had burned low enough that wax dripped on to the tables, and when Josephine gave her the friendly nod that told her she had done enough, she could slip away. She would make her excuses and say her farewells, inching toward the entry to her quarters. And then, when she had closed the door behind her, her mask fell away and she flew.

Most nights he had already retired there to wait for her. She would find him in front of a roaring fire, yet with the balcony doors open to the night breeze. He had built the fire himself, she knew, and brought with him a simple offering of bread and cheese, and occasionally fruit. Orders had been given to the agents who usually did such things to give them privacy on these nights, and even now, she thought how much she wished she’d thanked Josie for _simply knowing_ when she had never spoken the words.

There had been evenings when they worked at opposite sides of the room until the moon rose high, its gentle light reflecting off the snowcapped peaks in the distance. She would sit at her desk answering letter after letter while Solas reclined on the sofa, reading some obscure tome on loan from the university in Val Royeaux. Other times, it was he who spent the evening writing. There were always requests for translations, queries about magical theory and long-forgotten ruins waiting for his replies, and he worked through them as dutifully as he did anything else. And though they might spend an hour in silence, each engrossed in their own tasks, it was a joy simply to have him there and to know he felt the same.

When their work was done, another ritual began. She would close the balcony doors and dim the lamps as Solas stoked the fire in the hearth. She would undress and he would undress, or they would undress one another if it was that sort of evening, and eventually they would find themselves buried beneath those Antivan sheets and a pile of furs. In the cozy darkness, they would talk and laugh, and let the world drop away beneath them. And in those moments, precious and sacred, she could forget that she was the woman the world called Inquisitor and remember what it was that made her herself.

They would talk until sleep overtook them and then find each other in the Fade. She would wake at dawn, as she always did, but would linger in bed a few moments longer. Eventually, she would try to slip away quietly, so as to let him rest while she dressed and found breakfast in the kitchen. Yet even though he was still sound asleep, she would feel his arm curl around her waist as she moved to leave, and she would smile fondly as she let him pull her back to his side. And as she sat on the hard floor in the alienage apartment, her legs and backside beginning to cramp, she looked down at him again. If she were to lie down beside Solas now, she knew, he would reach out in his sleep and draw her in again.

With a wince, she recalled the demon’s taunt and found herself wondering how a single year of a life could mean so much to her, let alone to someone with a life as long as his. If she asked, he would tell her again that it had all been real, and she might believe him once more. But perhaps the truth of  it hardly mattered now. Perhaps the only thing that mattered was that his company, his comfort, had been the only home she had when the weight of the world rested upon her shoulders.

At dawn, when the light began to creep through the narrow window on the opposite side of the tiny room, she finally stood. Jonenn and Leval had reluctantly agreed to share their apartment, at least for the night, and Leval had offered her a spare set of clothes to replace her bloody ones. She hated to take from those who clearly had so little to give, she thought as she slipped the dress made from undyed wool over her head, and resolved to find some way to repay their kindness.

There had been a whirlwind of introductions when they arrived in the alienage in the early hours of the morning, though she could recall few of the names and faces now. It was clear that none of them had anticipated facing down an armed chevalier at the party, and they were all still reveling in their success. Leval had been the sole voice of doubt, reminding the others that their goal had been only to steal what supplies they could, not to engage any of the nobles or their guards in combat. Apparently these raids had become quite common in recent weeks, and she gathered it was a forgone conclusion that every wealthy household had someone’s cousin or uncle on staff who would be more than happy to organize from the inside.

She turned to find Solas stirring, the pale sunlight washing over his face, and a rush of relief flooded her. The blow he’d taken had been serious, and she’d had no guess as to how long it might take him to regain consciousness. He propped himself up on an elbow and grimaced as he ran a hand over the back of his head before turning to her.

“Where are-” he began.

She hushed him quickly, but not before a groan escaped from the bed that, while still not particularly large, took up the majority of the space in the apartment. Jonenn and Leval were enveloped in a tangle of limbs and blankets that only the young could make look comfortable. If they were anything like she had been at that age, she imagined they would remain so for several more hours. She pointed wordlessly to their slumbering figures on the bed and then again at the door, and Solas nodded his understanding.

 

* * *

 

The morning was crisp and the winter wind bit at her through the thin, borrowed dress. A patchy coat of grey snow from the night’s storm had covered the rooftops and settled on the windowsills. They wandered through the narrow alleyways that twisted like arteries through the alienage, all eventually spilling into the large park at the district’s heart. Solas moved slower and with more care than usual, a change so faint that only she was likely to notice. He had covered the large bruise on the back of his neck with the hood of a cloak borrowed from Jonenn - though this was the only article of clothing the two men might share. Solas stood at least a head taller than the younger man.

She recounted the rest of the evening’s events and named as many of the young elves as she could remember. Solas listened attentively, and asked no questions until she explained Leval’s description of the Dalish god.

“Then there was no one _specifically_ who told them to say they had been sent by the Dread Wolf?”

“I didn’t get that impression, no,” she answered. “Why?”

Solas shook his head and then winced - the quick movement was apparently too much for him just yet. “It may be nothing,” he told her. “But the _spectacle_ of it,” he continued with a slight hint of annoyance, “seemed familiar. I don’t suppose any of them mentioned Felassan?”

“No,” she confirmed as they moved past an abandoned merchant’s cart. “You really think he might be involved in this?”

“I cannot say,” Solas answered with a sigh. “I’d hoped to find him easily once we reached the city, if not in person then in dreams. But it seems that is not to be the case.”

“Leval thought it best that you sleep through the night - unless you would have preferred an even worse headache?” she asked with a grin.

“I would have preferred a chance to find Felassan,” he grumbled. “But I suppose it would be poor form to dispute the orders of my healer.”

She chuckled at that, relieved he hadn’t been angry with Leval’s decision. Dreams and connection to the Fade had always been such an inseparable part of how Solas perceived the world that she’d wondered if he might be furious at being deprived that connection, even for a single night.

And then it occurred to her.

“Solas?” She slowed her pace slightly and he followed suit. “Is there a way, other than the sort of draught Leval made, to prevent someone from dreaming?”

He studied her face for a moment, blue eyes peering out from underneath the threadbare hood. “There is a simple mixture of herbs,” he finally answered. “None are not difficult to come by. Mixed together properly and burned when one is falling asleep, it will block a person’s consciousness from entering the Fade until they awaken.”

“Could you show me how to make it?” As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized they sounded more desperate than she’d intended. Solas noticed.

“May I ask why?” He stopped completely and she found herself doing the same. His tone was familiar - one of clinical curiosity that usually accompanied any discussion of the Fade. But something else was behind it.

“Last night,” she began, “I dreamed of -” and faltered immediately. She wasn’t ready to talk about twenty years of nightmares in which he’d always been a prominent figure. “There was a demon,” she revised.

Solas raised an eyebrow. “It sought you out?” he asked and she nodded quickly in response.

“It _knew_ that I wasn’t in the right place or time. It said that all the spirits could see that.” She shivered at the memory of the thing’s teeth at her neck and folded her arms across her chest. “It seemed to find the whole idea fascinating.”

For a long moment, Solas stared at the snow coating the dirt beneath their feet. Behind and below the frost in the air, she could smell the dying fires that had warmed the alienage’s apartments throughout the night. Her stomach turned and she closed her eyes to fight away the memories the scent invoked of the charred forest.

And when she opened them again, it was to find that Solas had removed Jonenn’s cloak from his shoulders and was draping it around her own.

“I’m sorry,” he said as fixed the cloak’s catch at her neck. “I should have realized this would happen.”

“But there is a way to stop it?” she asked as she drew the cloak around her. “To stop myself from dreaming, I mean?”

From the pained look he gave her, she realized he could imagine few worse fates.

“That is one option,” he agreed reluctantly. “But it would also be possible for me to shape the Fade in a way that would keep you safe.”

She was suddenly very aware of the weight of his hand which still rested upon her shoulder.

“It’s a generous offer, Solas,” she said as she turned from him and started down the alley once more. “But you cannot guard my dreams every night.”

“I can if you wish me to,” said the voice behind her.

And, of course, she wished it. To have him by her side in dreams again - not as the stranger in the distance, ever present and always out of reach, but as a companion to walk by her side. But the truth was a complicated thing, and what he offered was too simple.

“And what if you were indisposed like you were last night? Or if something were to happen to you?” she asked the air in front of her, not trusting herself to look back at him. “I need to know how to protect myself.”

After a moment, she heard the crunch of his heels in the snow as he followed.

“Very well.”

Ahead of them, the layers of ramshackle apartments gave way, opening up into a clearing not much larger than Skyhold’s rotunda. In the center stood a massive oak tree, which was only just shorter than the wooden walls she could see far in the distance. The old story was true then, she realized. The tree likely never saw the sun before midday.

Its branches were barren of leaves here in the dead of winter, yet the tree hardly needed leaves when it was adorned instead with thousands of multicolored ribbons. Or, perhaps they had been multicolored at one time. Now, the vast majority had been bleached white, and those that still retained some of their original color were faded nearly beyond recognition. A collection of benches and stools circled its enormous trunk, and the ground surrounding the tree was uneven and rolling where the roots had pushed up toward the surface.

“The vhenadahl,” Solas commented as he craned his neck to look at the ribbons that shuddered in the morning air. “Have you seen one before?” he asked.

“I have - this one, in fact,” she replied quietly, suddenly struck by the stark beauty of the thing. “But it was … after.”

Solas looked at her, his brows drawn into the question to which she knew she’d opened the door.

“After the rebellion,” she explained. She cast a glance around the square, but it was entirely deserted. Far in the distance, she could just see a figure hanging clothes on a line run over an alleyway from a second-storey window. Val Royeaux went to bed late and woke even later, and its servants lived according to their masters’ schedules.

“And the inevitable retaliation from Gaspard’s forces,” she continued as they made their way to the base of the tree. “Such a large target and one that carried so much sentimental value to the elves in the city - it had been burned long before I ever saw it.”

They carefully lowered themselves on to the unsteady wooden bench that leaned up against the vhenadahl, ducking beneath a particularly low-hanging branch on their way. There was a moment of unspoken negotiation as they found the bench’s strange balance on its uneven legs in the snow-covered soil, and then they were still. Beneath their feet was a small woven basket. At one time it had likely been full of the colored ribbons decorating the tree, but now only a handful remained.

“ _Vhenadahl_ ,” she mused, looked up at the branches above them. “‘Tree of the people?’”

“Indeed,” Solas confirmed, following her gaze. “I believe I read once that most city elves believe it’s a Dalish tradition?”

She frowned as she turned back to him. “And most Dalish have never even heard the word. My people would have little use for something so permanent. We didn’t see much value in things that couldn’t be packed away and moved at a moment’s notice. Still,” she said, running a hand along the old bark, “it is beautiful.”

“Chasing echoes of echoes of echoes,” Solas muttered in that faraway tone that had always unnerved her and, later, made her question how much he had held back. But now, sitting here beneath the branches of this sacred thing the elves of the alienage had made for themselves, all she could feel was a flash of anger.

“It’s not _less_ because it’s an echo. A song doesn’t lose its melody when sung by someone new. They’ve created something meaningful here all on their own.”

“I - I’m sorry,” Solas apologized quickly, his hands held up before him. “I didn’t mean to imply that your world-”

“ _My_ world?” she shot back. Days of exhaustion and a night of fear had seeped into her skin, engulfed her like a fever. “My world died when I came here with you.”

She watched his carefully maintained composure falter, his brows pinching together and his mouth downturned. She might as well have struck him. But the words were aching to be said, and she had neither the strength nor the will to restrain them any longer.

“Nothing about this place is mine,” she told him. “My friends will never know me here. The memories I have of them no longer matter - they’re like stories in a book that only I can read. And _nothing_ , not a single thing I have done since we’ve been here has felt real.”

She didn’t realize it was true until she said it. But when she thought of what she had seen - what she had _done_ ...

She thought of the clan that she had left again. Faces that she would have given her life to see one more time. She thought of the dangers she knew they would face and that - once again - they would face those dangers without her. She thought of the Templar she’d burned in the forest, of the chevaliers she’d cut down without a thought. She thought of the way she had ripped the staff from Leval’s hands. She thought of the moment in which she had unmade her entire world.

And she thought of the woman who had been the Inquisitor.

What would that woman think she was?

She felt the tears then, burning their way down her chilled cheeks. And she felt Solas, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her in. He was not the answer. She had lost herself in him once, and had lost her world in so doing. But there was simply nothing for it. She rested her head against his shoulder and she sobbed.

“What are you doing?” she finally choked out, a muffled appeal into his chest. “I tried to kill you, and you-”

Solas chuckled - the harsh one he typically reserved only for his own failings. “If either of us had wanted the other dead, we would have succeeded,” he told her, and she couldn’t disagree.

All of it for nothing. All the sacrifices and the deaths, every friend she had lost. In the end, none of it had mattered - erased in a blip in time with one errant spell. What a fool she’d been.

“Why didn’t you just end it?” she finally asked. She felt his arms tighten around her, his hand warm against her back.

“I couldn’t,” he answered simply.

She brought a hand to her face and wiped the tears from her eyes, though they had yet to stop. “There was no other way, without the orb?”

“No. It wasn’t that.”

He was trembling. She could hear it in his voice and feel it beneath his skin.

“I was capable of removing the Veil shortly after I left the Inquisition,” Solas explained. “But I _couldn’t_.”

She turned then to look up him, and found him gazing down at her. And she understood.

Her heart was too full. Her sorrow for the dead and the duty she carried to honor their memories overwhelmed her. Her anger at herself, at him, at the unfairness of it filled her chest and stuck in her throat. And through it all was the love she carried for him and the knowledge that giving into that love would only lead them to ruin once more.

“It wasn’t a kindness,” she told him.

“I know,” he sighed as she saw the careful facade begin to fade away. “It was … and I should have -” He stopped himself, pulling back, regrouping.

“ _Ir abelas_ , my love,” he whispered.

And there it was, she thought. An apology that could never be enough and a confession that would always be too much. Nothing ever changed, not really.

“I can’t do this again, Solas.”

“I would not ask you to,” he promised, and she wanted to believe him.

They sat in silence as she struggled to calm her breathing and wiped the tears from her face. She could feel his heart racing beneath her head, and she placed a palm to his chest. Light spilled across the rooftops as the sun climbed higher, and more figures began to stir in the distant doorways.

When they had composed themselves, Solas leaned down to pick up the woven basket below the bench. He placed it in his lap, surveying the dozen or so ribbons that remained.

“Choose,” he said, offering her the basket.

She frowned at him in confusion and shook her head. “This isn’t-”

“Please.” And he smiled at her.

Well.

She reached a hand into the basket, retrieving a ribbon that had likely once been bright yellow, its ends now ragged and unraveling strand by strand. Solas nodded before choosing a faded blue ribbon that was similarly worn.

After returning the basket to its place on the ground, he extended his hand to her, and she passed him the ribbon she had chosen. He took the two of them between his careful fingers, knotting them tightly together. Then, he stood, moving to the low branch nearby. She watched as he tied the ribbons to the vhenadahl’s branch, the pair of them fluttering in the winter breeze, and then returned to her side. He took her hands, and she let him.

“You needn’t do this alone,” Solas told her.

Lingering wasn’t in her nature, and neither was silence. Yet beneath the great oak they remained for the rest of the morning. They talked a little, but mostly listened as the world went on around them. She found that it wasn’t so hard, after all, to remember the rhythm of their conversations, the steps to their dance. And, before long, she found that she could look into his eyes _almost_ the way she used to - without wondering when the trap would spring.

And it was there she remembered.

The skies above the western desert had been blue, but a soft, pale blue that was easily mistaken for grey when the sun was low in the sky. They were a blue that wanted the light to define them, but were no less beautiful for this need. And on overcast days when the clouds hung low above the dunes, the shadows mingled to form a brilliant violet unlike anything she’d ever seen before or since.

She had forgotten until she saw his eyes again.


	12. Unforgiven

He still loved her.

She shouldn’t let it preoccupy her so, and yet it was the first thought she had when she opened her eyes each day. Their one-night stay had stretched into a week and then two, and still they slept side by side on Jonenn’s floor, house-guests who had lingered far longer than intended. They waited, and waited, for some word from Felassan, but none came.

During the days they wandered the alienage’s narrow alleyways, musty corridors filled with debris and possessions discarded as the apartments’ residents had left in haste. She and Solas had learned that the vast majority of Val Royeaux’s elven population had been conscripted to Celene’s army a few weeks before they arrived. Even now, they were told, the forces stood at the ready just beyond the city’s Sun Gates, awaiting any word from the missing Empress.

The elves who had stayed behind were the sick, elderly, and very young. Jonenn, Leval, and the others were the exceptions, Leval had explained over dinner one evening. Their small group hid away in basements and attics, praying to the Maker that the city guards who came to ‘recruit’ every able-bodied elf would somehow miss them. Now, this small band of rebels were the alienage’s only source for outside supplies and information.

She and Solas were outsiders here, in this nearly-deserted village where each resident knew the others. At first, the older elves eyed them suspiciously as they passed. But eventually, as the city elves realized they were staying with Leval, they were greeted with small smiles each morning as they passed by the crumbling apartments.

Shortly after dawn each day they would walk side by side, Solas with his arms clasped behind his back as he made quiet conversation with the elderly elves whose names they had learned. Sometimes, as they walked together, she would feel his hand move to the small of her back - the faintest whisper of a touch - before he remembered himself and pulled it away again.

It shouldn’t make her smile, but it did. And when they passed the vhenadahl each morning and she saw their ribbons that Solas had tied together fluttering playfully in the breeze, that shouldn’t make her smile either.

But it did.

They’d found small ways to make themselves useful and, in return, trade for the things they needed. Solas, with his careful hand for script, had quickly become the primary letter-writer for the alienage. Literacy seemed relatively uncommon, she noticed, but as the conscripted elves had not been allowed to return to their homes even for a visit, letters were the only possible form of communication they had with those who had stayed behind. Each day as they made their rounds, she would watch over Solas’ shoulder as he transcribed the words of frightened children to their parents, or of elderly parents to their adult children. His script was delicate, flourished - more artistic and ornate than most she’d seen. When they’d first met, she assumed his unique handwriting was a quirk from being self-taught, rather than an artifact of her people’s distant past.

It was odd to see him this way. For so long she had thought of only the general, a dangerous element sowing chaos with his army of shadows. Of course, there were also earlier memories that she had buried so many years ago. There were moments, conversations, she could recall only faintly, when she had arrived at a camp or a village - the Inquisitor triumphant and surrounded by her entourage. The faces and names were blurred, but _he_ was clear and radiant. In her memory he was there, at the corners of her vision, offering water to the sick and assessing the wounded. While she and the others talked politics and strategy with the villages’ leaders, Solas walked among the people.

But that was the man she had forced herself to forget. She had bisected him neatly in her memories. There was a clear line of demarcation - the man who left her and the man who returned. Where one had been a scholar, a companion, and her lover - a good man; the other must only be a general, and her enemy. Conveniently, she could even name them separately. Solas was the man who’d brought light to her darkest days. But when he’d returned, he was something else. _Too_ bright now, golden, and fearsome, with edges too sharp. To gaze upon Fen’Harel was to stare painfully into the heart of the sun.

Solas had left her a man and returned a god. It mattered little whether he was willing to consider himself so. ‘God,’ she had come to learn, was not a word with a fixed definition. What other word could possibly apply to a being so powerful he could sunder the waking world from the Fade and turn armies to stone with a wave of his hand?

Yet despite it all, she’d never been able to shake the image of who he had been. Like a stray dog, it returned to her memory’s doorstep time and again. And she knew why that vision of Solas would never fade completely - stray dogs have little reason to abandon a house that feeds them, and she had nourished her memories of him with all the hope she could sustain.

As Solas would talk with the alienage’s remaining residents, writing their letters or reading those that had been smuggled back from the army’s camp at the Sun Gates, she would aid in other ways. Debris was everywhere in the narrow streets, blocking doorways and preventing anything other than foot passage. There had been skirmishes between the city elves and the human soldiers when the conscription began, and repairing the ramshackle buildings was both beyond the ability of the elves who had avoided the draft, and clearly not a priority for Val Royeaux’s officials.

So, as the alienage’s residents turned their heads, she would summon energy from the Fade to lift stones and beams that blocked the alleys. She would return fallen shingles to the roofs from which they’d fallen, and shore up sagging eaves as best she could. The elves would allow Solas to ‘distract’ them as she worked, though she was certain all parties were well aware of the pretense.

In return for their services, they each received a set of clothing - likely scavenged from the abandoned apartments - and small portions of the herbs Solas had promised could prevent her from dreaming. Yet because the portions were so small, she had yet to use any of them. Instead, she had reluctantly taken Solas up on his offer to watch over her dreams. There was no sense, she reasoned, in wasting what limited resources she had to guard herself against the demon that lay in wait.

Each night they would arrange themselves carefully in the bedroll they shared on Jonenn’s floor. The apartments surrounding them were vacant, but the city elves seemed reluctant to claim any of them, worried that doing so would somehow seal the fates of the others who had been forced to leave. She would wait until she was certain Solas had fallen asleep before allowing herself to close her eyes, never wanting to risk the possibility of entering the Fade on her own. And once she felt his breath warm against her shoulder, or his arm drape heavily over her hip, she knew it was time. Such touches were the sort of mistakes he would never allow when he was conscious.

She fought to remind herself that, whatever he seemed now, he could so easily be something else entirely. His soft touches could crush her with the slightest effort - perhaps without even meaning to harm her. For all his compassion, all his tenderness, how could she feel safe with him knowing that he was capable of feats she didn’t even fully comprehend? She had led herself down this path once before, though at least then she had done so unknowingly. What sort of fool must she be to want so desperately to trust him now that she knew the truth?

But as she felt her eyes close and her body grow heavy with the promise of sleep, she recalled what she had been told by the only other god she had ever encountered.

 _Truth is not the end, but a beginning._  

 

* * *

 

Tonight, as always, she woke in the rotunda. Though she had visited this place every night for the last two weeks, it was no less strange to be there. She had rarely visited _her_ rotunda - not this version from somewhere in Solas’ memories - after he left the Inquisition. The library, which had once been her favorite place to pass the moments in between her duties, had been too painful a reminder of the things she’d lost after Corypheus was defeated.

Solas had revealed the rest of the murals to her their second night spent in the rotunda. After the scenes portraying the Evanuris flanked by their wolves, and Andruil hunting the corrupted Titan, the other murals depicted the rest of the story Solas had told her on their way to Ostwick. Yet one image in particular had startled her, made her feel like she was slipping between the walls, as smoldering trees encroached upon the edges of her vision and threatened to erupt through the rotunda’s floor. Solas had stared at her that night, his eyes full of concern and confusion, and something in his gaze had anchored her to this place, this dream. For a terrifying moment, she thought she’d seen how fragile it was - the spaces he carved out within the raw Fade - and the way a stray emotion or memory could bring it all to ruin.

But whatever it was that she’d heard or seen, she hadn’t sensed its presence again. She hadn’t offered Solas an explanation as to why the mural had disturbed her, nor did he press her for one. They’d talked of other things as they passed the nights in the protected space he had wrapped around them, eyes averted from the history displayed upon the walls. They worried as to why Felassan had not sought them out in Val Royeaux, and she thought, with a pang of guilt, that perhaps Solas would be seeking out his friend’s dreams if he hadn’t promised to stay with her.

On this night, she found Solas staring at a blank expanse of plaster that hadn’t been there the night before. She looked to the murals on either side of it to get her bearings, and realized that the scene depicting Mythal and the other Evanuris was gone.

She yawned a little and stretched her arms over her head as she stood up from the sofa. “What’re you doing?” she asked Solas as she approached him.

He gave her a quick smile before turning back to survey the blank wall. “Painting,” he answered.

“Painting?” she repeated, incredulous. “Don’t you need - oh, I don’t know - paint, or maybe some brushes for that? Or is this some sort of Fade-painting I’m not familiar with?”

Solas chuckled, and she felt a grin spread across her face. “Ah yes,” he smirked at her. “The ancient Elvhen art of Fade-painting.” After a moment’s thought, he turned from the blank plaster and faced her. “Although, there is some degree of truth to your jest.

“The fusion of art and magic was not at all uncommon in Elvhenan. In fact, I would venture to say the majority of our art had some magical component to it - whether in the creation of the materials used or the composition of the piece itself.

“But painting entirely within the Fade? Using the Fade’s energies, rather than my own two hands, to form color and line?” Solas shook his head. “I see little appeal in that.”

“Really?” she asked. “It’s only -” she stopped, laughing a little. “Forgive me, but I find it  somewhat difficult to imagine you enjoying something more _without_ the aid of magic.”

He laughed again. “Yes, well. Things have always been easier for me in the Fade. But painting is not something I wish to be easy. My enjoyment of it comes as much from the process as it does seeing the final work.

“In a way,” he continued, “manipulating the energy of the Fade is much like painting. I must draw from my memories and experiences to create an approximation of place - like this rotunda, for example - and then alter the space as necessary for whatever function it must serve.

“It is true that, if I wished, I could merely imagine the scene I intend to portray on this plaster,” he said, waving a hand toward the blank wall, “and it would appear there, fully formed and precisely as I see it in my mind. Yet doing so would deprive me of the journey.”

“That seems like a very long-winded way of saying it doesn’t count if it’s Fade-painting.”

As soon as the words escaped her mouth, she regretted them. It was too far, too intimate of a memory to recall when things were so delicate between them. She watched as Solas’ expression froze, a pink blush spreading from his freckled cheeks to the tips of his ears, and she felt the heat of a similar reaction blooming across her own face. She quickly stared down at her feet, only to see him take a step closer to her.

“As I said,” his voice suddenly low and quiet, “Things have always been easier for me in the Fade. But some things are far more satisfying in practice than in one’s imagination.”

She took a deep breath and a step back.

“We - we _are_ still talking about frescoes, aren’t we?” she asked, the tremor in her voice betraying more than she would have liked, as she found the courage to look up at him again.

He had reached out to her - barely. The gesture was nearly imperceptible, just a simple shifting forward of his weight on his feet and the beginnings of a movement with his right hand. But he halted his forward momentum immediately, rolling back on his heels and folding his arms behind his back in one fluid movement.

“Of course,” he answered with a kind smile, only his flushed face betrayed the calm he otherwise portrayed. “To answer your original question, I _am_ painting. As you may recall, once I begin the process of applying the wet plaster and mixing the pigments, I have only so much time to finish the work. Thus, before I begin - in any visually apparent way, at least - I must know exactly what I wish to achieve.”

“And what is it that you wish to achieve?” she wondered.

“For this particular panel?” Solas arched an eyebrow. “I haven’t decided just yet,” he admitted. “But I find that working from a blank slate makes it much easier to see all the possibilities.”

And that answer, for reasons she couldn’t quite put her finger on, unnerved her. There was something familiar and unpleasant about the idea of him working for so long in silence and passivity, all the while planning - plotting - the precise nature of the thing he wanted to take shape. To think of the patience necessary for such an endeavor …

Well, she thought as she retreated to the sofa and left Solas to his painting, that was not the sort of patience afforded to those with mortal lifespans.

 

* * *

 

Time functioned differently in the Fade, of that much she was certain. But how and why it passed differently than it did when they were awake, neither she nor Dorian had ever made much progress in explaining. So she couldn’t be certain whether she’d spent five minutes or five hours lounging on the sofa while Solas wandered around the room, apparently lost in thought. Finally, he came to a stop in front of one of the murals.

 _The_ mural, in fact.

A cold rush swept down her spine as she focused upon the images. In the middle of the scene stood Solas with his arms spread wide. She had to assume it was him, as the figure looked identical to the other murals she had encountered in which he had painted himself. To his right were the golden, crowned figures she knew were his representation of the Evanuris. To his left were the wolves.

The wolves who stood guard around the Evanuris in Solas’ first panel had been brown, golden, and white. But those wolves were gone now, and the ones that remained were changed - fur black and mangy, all teeth and claws. She thought she could hear the demon’s voice as she stared into the wolves’ blighted eyes, and feel its breath against her neck as her gaze moved to their slavering jaws.

She had to look away.

She took a long breath in. _This place is safe_ , she reminded herself. And a slow breath out. _It will be the rotunda as long as I allow it to be the rotunda_.

When the embers had faded from her vision and she looked up again, she found Solas staring at her.

“What is it?” he asked her, brow furrowed with worry.

“Nothing,” she told him. “It’s nothing.”

His pursed lips and somber expression made it quite clear that she hadn’t convinced him, though he didn’t push her to explain. She closed her eyes and brought her hands to either side of her forehead, massaging her throbbing temples with her fingertips.

“What happened to them?” she asked abruptly.

His frown deepened as he shook his head, utterly confused. “Who?” He thought she was changing the subject, she realized quickly.

“The wolves. The ones who used the red lyrium. You said you negotiated a truce?”

“Oh.” Solas turned away to look at the mural behind him. “Yes, there was peace for a short time. But one of the conditions of the negotiations was that the Evanuris must order their Shalelanis to abstain from the corrupted blood. But the Shalelanis had become accustomed to the strength that the blood provided them and, as we saw in our own travels, it is perilously addictive. They had no intention to give up their new power willingly.

“By that time, the adverse effects of the red lyrium were more than apparent. But even more important than that,” he continued with a scowl, “were the Evanuris’ concerns about their own safety.”

“What did they have to be worried about?” she wondered aloud. “You said they were the most powerful mages in Elvhenan, and the vallaslin could prevent them from dying, even. Why would they fear the wolves?”

Solas smiled at this, pleased with her question. “You are correct that the Evanruis _became_ our most powerful mages, but they were not always such. Those who were afforded the opportunity to slay a titan and claim the title were among the most creative and gifted of my people. Some were more gifted in political maneuvering than they were in magic, and others came from influential families who held the bulk of the power in Elvhenan. The decision was not based entirely upon merit,” he admitted.

“The Evanruis _were_ powerful. But they became so because of the foci. Without them, they - we - had no more power than any other mage of similar talent and training.”

“And the wolves,” she said, following his train of thought, “they had found another source of power.”

“Precisely,” Solas nodded. “One that was far more common than a titan’s heart. The Shalelanis were skilled warriors and mages without the assistance of red lyrium. The Evanuris didn’t know whether their slaves could become powerful enough to overthrow them with the assistance of the titan’s corrupted blood, and they did not want to find out."

“So, what did they do?” she asked.

“It is … what I did,” he replied slowly.

“The Evanuris tasked me with finding a way to contain the corrupted wolves. It was a test of loyalty, you see.” Solas’ voice dipped dangerously, his even tone beginning to betray his temper. “I had been one of them, the Shalelanis, and now the Evanuris must know that they could trust me. That I wouldn’t return to my own kind, given the chance. And, of course, I passed their test, young and eager as I was.

“But there was some … disagreement,” he continued hesitantly, “about how precisely to deal with those who had consumed the lyrium and broken the peace that had taken centuries to negotiate.”

“Wait, you spent _centuries_ negotiating that treaty?”

Solas winced a little at the question. “I have said that debates in Elvhenan could span centuries and this was no simple debate. There was much at stake, and much lost when the treaty was broken.

“Mythal was greatly angered that the Shalelanis had defied their masters’ orders. So while all the Evanuris were in agreement that I must find a way to keep the wolves check, it was Mythal who judged them and determined their punishment. Because I had long been her faithful servant, and because I, too, was enraged that they had destroyed the peace that I had fought for, I agreed to carry it out.”

She crossed the room to him, careful not to turn her eyes toward the wolves in the mural. “What did Mythal tell you to do?”

Solas sighed and folded his arms over his chest before staring down at his feet. “First, Mythal decreed that the names of the Shalelanis who had betrayed us would never be spoken again. They would be lost for all time, erased from every written record and even their memories wiped away from where they lingered in the Fade. From that moment on, they would be known only as ‘the ones whose names are forbidden.’

“And second, Mythal ordered that they should suffer our gravest punishment - the _utharel_. It was a very rare thing, both due to its severity and because it required a Dreamer mage capable of precisely manipulating the Fade to achieve the desired effect. It had not been used in my lifetime - that is, until I carried it out.”

“ _Utharel_?” she repeated, as she worked through the translation. “Fear … fear for all time? An eternity of fear?”

He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck before he responded. “I would say that the closest translation would be ‘never ending terror.’”

“What does that mean?” she asked quietly.

“There are dark places in the Fade,” he explained, voice thick with emotion. “Places that have seen much sorrow or death. Battlefields are common, but they are many others. Sometimes, they do not even require a physical counterpart or catalyst in the waking world.

“When we have recurring nightmares, the Fade becomes accustomed to forming the shapes that fill those nightmares. The more often we dream, the more solid and permanent those shapes become.” He frowned and shook his head. “My apologies, I do not think I am explaining this well. It’s difficult to describe if you have not seen it.”

“I think I understand. It’s like a muscle,” she offered. “The more we use it, the stronger it becomes.”

“Yes, precisely. Thank you,” he said with a small smile. “There are places in the Fade shaped by these nightmares and they can become truly dangerous, even for skilled mages and Dreamers.” He stopped then, looking up at her rather sheepishly.

“What is it?” she wondered.

“Ah - well,” he stammered awkwardly. “It’s simply that - well, this will be somewhat uncomfortable to explain, given our current surroundings.”

Skeptically, she looked up at the balcony above them and the roof beyond. What was he on about?

“I would ask only that you appreciate the nuance involved in working similar spells for very dissimilar reasons,” Solas told her.

“... Alright,” she agreed hesitantly.

“It is possible to -” Solas paused again and restarted. “I am capable of isolating an individual in the Fade while they are dreaming.”

“As you’re ‘isolating’ me right now?”

“Yes,” he answered. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but - well, you wouldn’t be capable of leaving this space if you wanted to. In your case,” he rushed on as she felt her eyes widen in surprise, “I have done so in order to ensure that your sleeping mind does not return to the place where you encountered the demon.”

“Why would I want to go back there?” she asked, even as the embers flashed in the corners of her eyes once more.

“It is not a question of wanting,” Solas quickly explained. “Have you never walked down a path and intended to turn in one direction but, merely out of habit, you turned the other way? It is often like that when we dream. Or so it is for those who do not dream lucidly.”

“So, it’s a prison,” she said with dawning realization. “And you hold the key.”

He did not seem overly happy with the characterization but he agreed nonetheless. “Yes - except that, in your case, it is a prison that will evaporate the moment you wake up.”

“Alright,” she said again, no less hesitantly. “And what does this have to do with the _utharel_?”

“The _utharel_ is a spell that traps a dreaming mind inside of its nightmares. It is a prison filled with everything you fear the most in the world,” Solas explained.

“But - couldn’t they wake up?” she asked, knowing that she didn’t want to hear the answer.

“No,” he looked away from her again. “That is what makes the spell so complex. It is one thing to create a space in the Fade and to lure a sleeping consciousness to it. Many Dreamers have been capable of that feat. It is another thing entirely to convince a mind that what they see in their dreams is real - that they are, in fact, awake - that there is, and never will be, an escape from the horrors that torture them.

“If you can achieve that,” Solas continued quietly, “if the mind believes that what it sees it real, and because the mind is trapped in the Fade, where expectations shape reality, even the need for a physical body will fall away. Then the mind will sustain the illusion itself, without the need for the Dreamer’s presence.”

“For how long?”

“Infinitely,” he replied.

She felt herself recoil and saw the hurt written in his face, but how else could he expect her to react? The burning forest flashed before her eyes again, the memory of the smell of death and smoke gagging her. What would it do to her to be trapped there forever - to believe that agony was her whole world, her entire existence? To run and run away from the wolf who reminded her of her failures and dogged her every step? To know there was no end to it, no hope, no rest. Which would destroy her first, she wondered - the terror, the despair, or the rage?

“How many of them did you do this to?” she demanded.

It was Solas’ turn to recoil, as if she had struck him. But he answered her question.

“All of the Shalelanis who had consumed the corrupted blood.”

“How. Many.” She asked it again, more deliberately.

“Many,” he told her, his voice close to breaking.

“Do you not even know the number of-”

“I know the number!” he snapped at her, and she took a step away from him. Solas had raised his voice to her only once before, and she was suddenly very aware that, whatever else this rotunda might be, it was thoroughly within his control. But the fear that had seized her dissipated quickly when she watched him retreat to the table and collapse into his chair, utterly defeated.

“I know the number,” Solas said again, as he buried his head in his hands. “And more than that, I know every name and every face. I know which horrors I sentenced each of them to. I know that my face was the last they ever saw before they were consumed by their own nightmares.”

She knew better than to comfort him, because there was no comfort for such a thing, and he would not believe himself worthy of comfort anyway. And so she waited until his shoulders had stopped shaking and he spoke again.

“I look for them sometimes, in the Fade. I see them, still in their prisons, warped and twisted from what they were. They are filled with hatred and fear. They wish for death.”

“If you know where they are, why don’t you free them?” she questioned as delicately as she could manage.

He chuckled bitterly. “If only it were that simple. I have no idea what they would be if I released them. They are furious with me, with the world, with everything they can see and touch. I made them monsters, but if I release them now -” Solas shook his head. “A few of the prisons already stand empty.”

“Excuse me?” An icy chill gripped her chest.

“It is only a handful but-”

“How is that possible?” She felt the panic rising, her breath coming in shallow, quick gasps. And she thought of what that thing that wore Dorian’s face had said to her.

 _He was my brother once, before he betrayed us all_.

“I wish I knew,” Solas had continued. “They must have gained some realization of where they were. But with their physical bodies lost, they would have more in common with spirits than anything else. They may remember some aspects of who they were, or they may have forgotten their previous lives completely. I simply do not know.”

She stared at him, mouth agape with horror. She wanted to tell him what she knew - for she was certain, now, that the demon who called itself Choice not only had been created in exactly this way, but also that it was well aware of who it had been in its past life. But if she told Solas that one of his ancient enemies was prowling about her nightmares, nurturing her fears and her doubts, how far would he go to stop it? And she worried that when he blamed himself, as he inevitably would, how long would it be before he fled from her again in some misguided attempt to keep her safe?

 _And_ , said a voice that had clawed its way up the back of her skull and rumbled in her ears, _if you banish Choice, there will be no one who can warn you about the dark places in the Dread Wolf’s heart._

“That was the beginning of the end,” Solas said from where he still sat. “I should have seen that what Mythal asked was too much, and that the other Evanuris would not react well to what I did. But I was foolish - blinded by my pride and too eager to seek vengeance on those who had spoiled my greatest achievement. Otherwise, perhaps I would have realized that the Evanuris would assume Mythal had ordered me to wipe out their standing armies so that she was the only one among them who had forces at her command.

“So it was that they styled me _Fen’Harel_ \- the traitor wolf, bringer of fear, betrayer of my kin. The People were terrified of me when they learned what I had done, and even my brothers in Mythal’s service no longer trusted me.”

“You were following orders - ” she began, but Solas wouldn’t hear it.

“Mythal gave me an impossible task,” he interrupted. “As I said, the _utharel_ had not been performed in my lifetime. It is an immensely complex spell. Some thought it had never been performed - that it was but a myth used to keep us under the Evanuris’ control. It would have been a simple thing to tell Mythal that I was not capable of what she asked, and she would have believed me.

“But I could not do that. I couldn’t claim that a spell was beyond my capacity when I was so certain I would be able to make it work. I couldn’t lie to make myself seem less than what I was. I wanted to be clever more than I wanted to be loved.”

He looked up at her then, the first time he had done so since he had placed his head in his hands. His eyes were red, but his cheeks dry.

“I do not expect your forgiveness,” he told her.

“ _My_ forgiveness?” she shot back, irritated that he thought it was her place to absolve him. “What right have I to forgive you for what you did? I didn’t know them. They were not my people.”

“No, I -” Solas let out an exasperated sigh and pushed himself up from the chair. Crossing the distance between them in a few long strides, he reached out to her and she let him take her hands, more out of surprise than anything else. They were cold and shaking, and she gripped them tightly.

Solas’ eyes met hers and he gave her a smile - small and sorrowful.

“I am sorry that I am not what you wanted me to be.”

His answer crushed her like an avalanche, but she struggled to maintain her composure. “And what is that?” she asked.

“A good man.”

Her heart broke for him as she saw, written clearly on his face, how sincerely he meant it. He saw no redemption for himself and had accepted that long ago. But she was not so easily convinced.

“Are you so certain that you can’t be?” she offered, and he let out a biting laugh that answered her question even before he spoke.

“Perhaps there is a part of me that wants to be,” Solas said. “But that will never be what I am. Good men falter and make mistakes, but they learn. They hurt the ones they love, just as all of us do, but they make amends and they find other ways to protect what matters most to them. And when they strike out at the world, their anger is not born of vengeance, but of justice.”

“It sounds to me as if you _have_ learned these things,” she told him.

“No,” he replied quickly, releasing her hands and turning away. “I have learned nothing.

“After I performed the _utharel_ for Mythal, I swore I would never use that spell again. But when they killed her, when they murdered Mythal because they believed she was vicious and power-hungry, I enacted the same punishment on the Evanuris.”

She had barely a moment to process his words when a voice from above them nearly made her jump out of her skin.

“Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me!”

With a gasp, she grabbed Solas’ elbow in front of her to steady herself. They both looked up toward the balcony that hung over them, searching the shadows for the source of the voice.

“You mean to tell me that I left you here _weeks_ ago so that you could finish telling this story and, somehow, you are _still_ telling it?” The elf’s violet eyes sparkled mischievously as he stepped into the light. “You have always been long-winded, brother, but this is a rare feat, even for you!”

“Felassan,” Solas all but growled.

“And what sort of a greeting is that for your old friend?” Felassan smiled broadly and made a sweeping gesture at the walls around them. “Quite a fortress you’ve built for yourself here. Though I do appreciate you - ah - leaving the key where I could find it, so to speak.”

She wasn’t entirely certain what that was supposed to mean to two Dreamer mages, and she had a feeling she wouldn’t like the explanation. Felassan stopped talking only long enough to make his way to the stairs that would lead him down to their level. She heard his light footfalls as he hurried toward them and quickly reappeared in the archway near the sofa.

“Where have you been?” Solas demanded as soon as he emerged.

“Oh come now, old friend,” Felassan teased as he approached them. “You don’t get to have all the fun with the locals.”

Solas answered with his customary scowl.

“I haven’t been far,” Felassan went on, ignoring him. “Just a short journey south in Halamshiral. Orlais’ beloved Empress has returned to her Winter Palace and and is none too happy with the elves in the city there.”

“The Empress has returned?” she questioned Felassan. “The nobles in Val Royeaux have no idea where she is.”

“Observant as ever, I see.” He flashed his toothy grin at her before he explained. “According to my companion, Celene has likely kept her return a secret in order to see which of her nobles sided with Gaspard in his failed coup d'état.”

“So you’ve been wasting your days playing Orlesian politics again?” Solas sneered at him. “You know all too well that it is only a matter of time before that blighted magister uses the power you put in his hands.”

“Ah,” Felassan tapped his chin. “But on whose authority did I place the Orb of Fen’Harel in the path of this so-called ‘blighted magister?’ Surely it could not be the owner of the Orb himself?

“You see,” Felassan turned to her in a conspiratorial aside, “this is what I miss most about taking orders. It’s always so simple to push the blame back onto its rightful source.”

Solas’ expression was perfectly murderous.

“Why now?” she said, stepping forward to place herself between them. She doubted Solas would really strike his old friend, but there was no reason to give him the opportunity. “You said yourself that you’ve left us to our own devices for weeks now. We’ve been waiting for word from you so we know where to go next. So - why now?”

Felassan beamed at her.

“Now _there’s_ an intelligent question,” he said, clapping her on the shoulder. “You do remember when you used to ask intelligent questions, don’t you Solas?” She chanced a glance behind her and saw Solas opening his mouth to speak, but Felassan plowed forward.

“I am here because you fouled things up, my dear,” he told her in a substantially less friendly tone. “Our spies tell us that your little midnight raids have the nobles up in arms. They’re complaining that Val Royeaux’s elves are out of control and that rebellion is imminent.”

“Rebellion?” Solas asked incredulously. “As I am certain the city’s nobles are well aware, the Empress’ army has conscripted nearly every elf who would be capable of fighting in such a rebellion. The people left in the alienage are harmless.”

“Not so harmless as you believe if they were able to fell two chevaliers within Comtesse Tremblay’s own ballroom,” Felassan mused.

“Oh shit,” she heard herself say. This was her fault.

“Oh shit, indeed,” Felassan agreed. “Their raids had been entirely free from violence until the pair of you showed up in Val Royeaux.” He swept his long cloak behind him with a flourish as if it were making his point for him. “What an odd coincidence.

“And now several nobles have combined their estate guards with a moderately-sized group of chevaliers, all of whom intend to raid the alienage, well, imminently.” He rattled all this off as easily as if he were discussing the weather. “Amazing what the two of you can accomplish when you put your minds to it - you even have Orlesian politicians cooperating with each other.”

She felt Solas move beside her but she held out an arm to stop him. “How soon? When does the attack begin?”

Felassan pressed a finger to his lips as he apparently thought it over. “Oh, _now_ , I would say. They are gathering already, likely planning to make their move at dawn. My companion and I are camped just outside of the city. We will join you in the alienage within the hour - that is, assuming you will require our assistance?”

“Of course we -” she began, but before she could finish, Solas grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her toward him, staring into her eyes.

“Wake up,” he told her.

And so she did. 

 

* * *

 

She awoke to find a pair of terrified green eyes staring down at her. Leval stood over her makeshift bed on the floor, shaking her by the shoulders.

“Wake up!” Leval begged her in a frightened whisper. “You _must_ wake up. They are coming for the alienage!”

She pushed herself into a seated position and turned to see Solas beside her, his eyes still closed.

“Please, you must come now,” Leval said, grabbing her hand and pulling her to feet. “We must warn the others!”

The image of the charred remains of the alienage’s vhenadahl burned in her mind. She thought of the ribbons - yellow and blue, knotted together - they had placed upon the tree, a promise to this place as much as to one another.

She would not be the reason they burned again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So annoyed with myself that it took two months to get through this chapter, but at least you get a relatively long one as a thank-you for the wait.
> 
> Many thanks to this Tumblr post for providing all of my headcanon regarding the painting method Solas uses:  
> http://sulahnenasalin.tumblr.com/post/122544768009/lets-talk-solas-frescoes-solas-paintings-are
> 
> I will probably do a Solas POV of Chapter 9 next, just to break things up a bit before I launch into work on the next chapter. As always if you have questions or prompt suggestions, feel free to drop me a note here or on Tumblr.  
> http://soetzufit.tumblr.com/
> 
> And THANK YOU for reading! <3


	13. Questions

The morning air was cold, the last remains of the winter wind tearing at her cheeks as the horses’ hooves plowed through the foggy streets. Never before had she felt so ill-prepared to go into battle, with the lack of her staff for casting spells and only a simple dress, leggings, and cloak to serve as her armor.

The two horses in the whole of the alienage had both been stolen during one of the raids on the estate district. Until tonight, they had only been used to pull the carriage back and forth when it was needed, and spent most of their time in the makeshift stable set up outside of Jonenn’s apartment. Now, Jonenn and Leval rode together on the black mare whose nose and mane were grey with age. Behind them, she and Solas were astride a younger roan with a skittish gait. He guided the horse carefully down the narrow streets, while she kept her arms wrapped around his midsection.

“We are not finished,” she said, raising her voice a bit louder than she would have liked to be sure he heard her over the wind whipping past. She tightened her grip when he glanced over his shoulder at her.

“Finished?” he asked. She pulled herself closer to him, straightening her back as she struggled to get as close to his ear as she could.

“I have questions,” she said, thinking of what he had told her about the fate of the Evanuris. “A lot of questions.” She saw him nod, though he didn’t look back at her again.

“I will tell you whatever you wish to know,” he assured her. “But now is not the time.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “I will answer your questions. I promise.”

She knew he was right, that it was ridiculous to try to hold this conversation while riding on a horse into battle in the predawn stillness of the elven district’s muddy roads. But her thoughts raced with the implications of what he had said - and what he had yet to say.

“Will you be strong enough to fight?” she asked, pulling herself up to his ear again. She felt his chest move against her hands as he chuckled in reply. “I only ask because one or two spells seems to be your limit these days before you need to take a nap.”

That put an end to his laughter.

“Believe me,” Solas said after a long exhale, “I am no more pleased with the situation than you. I feel as if some of my stamina has returned, but I suppose I will only truly know once the time is at hand.”

“Funny,” she replied before she could stop herself. “I don’t recall you having issues with stamina in the past.”

For an uncomfortably long moment, all she heard was the beat of the roan’s hooves and the sigh of the wind as it swept past. Beneath her hands, still clasped across his chest, she felt his pulse quicken.

She _knew_ she shouldn’t say such things. She shouldn’t churn the waters of an already muddy creek, and she knew she was confusing herself as much as she was him. Yet how could she help herself when his cheeks reddened so obligingly every time? There was just enough light from the dawning sun to see the flush spread to the tips of his ears.

“Funny-” Solas began, though she would not hear his retort.

The roan shied suddenly, coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of the alleyway. Solas was thrust forward against its neck, and she landed hard against his back. She gasped as she pulled herself upright and searched the street for some sign of what had scared the horse. She didn’t need to look far.

A hooded figure stood blocking their path, wearing a full cape and carrying a bulky walking stick in his left hand. As she squinted against the darkness she realized that, in fact, he carried not one stick, but three. The figure waved his free hand - a quick flick of his wrist - and one of the sticks illuminated suddenly, a soft green glow in the darkness. The light was dim, but it was enough for her to see the angles of his face, and trace the lines of his vallaslin.

“Felassan,” she whispered into the night air, and the elf answered her with a smirk. Several paces ahead, Jonenn had slowed the black mare and brought her around to rejoin them.

“Who are you?” Leval demanded from her perch behind Jonenn.

Felassan swept the hood from his head and made a show of bowing low before them. His grey hair was braided as she had seen it in the Fade, and his eyes sparkled mischievously in the glow of the veilfire just as they had done in her dreams. But before Felassan could make his introductions, she felt Solas lurch in front of her as he hurried to dismount. She pushed herself forward and grabbed the roan’s reins, the horse stomping its feet nervously.

She watched as Solas dropped to the ground, his leather footwraps smacking softly against the dirt. He crossed the distance to Felassan in a few long strides, walking with such purpose and intention that, for a moment, she feared he was about to strike his friend.

But instead, when Solas reached Felassan, he wrapped his arms around the man’s shoulders in a tight embrace. And for the first time in the few weeks that she had known him, she saw Felassan completely disarmed - unprepared for this fervent expression of affection from his old friend. But after a hesitant pause, Felassan grinned and responded in kind.

Jonenn and Leval watched the interaction, their faces twisted in confusion, but she tightened her grip on the reins as she fought back tears. She _knew_ what she was watching. They hadn’t seen each other in _ages_ \- more years than she could possibly comprehend. Perhaps they had never thought they would see one another again outside of their dreams and the memories they shared. And for Solas, it was more than this, she imagined.

 _A second chance_ , she thought as the two men separated.

It was then that she recognized the staffs in Felassan’s hand.

“Where did you find those?” she asked.

Felassan approached the roan, laying a hand upon its neck to steady it, and Solas followed behind him. “Precisely where you left them,” Felassan said as he offered her the staff she’d left in the hidden room behind Lady Tremblay’s pantry.

“What have you done to it?” Solas eyed his own weapon disdainfully, and she noticed that it was different than it had been when he’d first come to her. Then, the staff had been beautiful and intricately carved, a delicate and rare thing with a shining crystal at the center. Now, it looked more like a large branch that had been snapped from a tree in haste, with a small, crude stone tied to its tip by a thin strip of leather.

“I simplified it!” Felassan said. “I thought you might prefer something a little less … _showy_ ,” he explained, handing over the staff. “And you forgot this as well.” Felassan reached into the folds of his cloak and retrieved something small that fit into the palm of his hand. He held it out to Solas, opening his fingers as he did so.

Her stomach dropped.

In Felassan’s outstretched hand was the jawbone of a wolf, blackened with age and the edges of its teeth smooth from centuries of wear. Coiled around it were two cords of black leather.

She hadn’t even realized he didn’t have it. It seemed so natural that he wouldn’t be wearing it, because Solas hadn’t been in possession of it for the better part of twenty years. The last she had seen this necklace was in a carved wooden box that she kept closed away in the bottom corner of her bureau in the Kirkwall house. She’d kept it there since the morning she awoke to find it sitting on the table beside her bed. The small contingent of bodyguards she employed swore no one had entered the manor overnight, and Kirkwall’s Captain of the Guard reported no strange activity in her district. And so, she’d recognized it for what it was - a gift to say goodbye. But she had tucked it away, hidden from sight and mind. She brought it out only when she needed it, when she couldn’t help herself.

When she missed him.

Solas’ eyes met hers briefly before he took the necklace from Felassan’s hand. “Thank you,” he said, unwrapping the cord from the jawbone. “I must have forgotten this in my haste to leave.” Felassan raised an eyebrow in reply.

Solas brought the long cords above his head, and she watched as the jawbone settled low on his chest. His expression was flat, or perhaps resigned, she thought. But for her, it was like watching him willingly tie a noose around his own neck.

“If this little reunion is over,” Leval interjected, “we need to reach the main gate before the city’s forces do.”

“But you don’t even know my name!” Felassan shot back. “It is Felassan, since you were wondering, and our reunion isn’t quite done yet. I appreciate the need for haste, but I’ve brought a friend along with me as well.” He gestured a few dozen paces behind him toward the outer wall of the alienage. From this distance, she could make out a large hole in the thick wood that was still smoldering slightly.

Just inside the wall approached a smaller figure, dressed in a good set of leather armor with a pair of daggers at her hips and a bow slung across her chest. She had seen Briala without her mask only once, when they’d fought together in the Arbor Wilds. Still, she recognized the woman’s face - brown and dotted with freckles - and her wavy hair pulled back into a large bun.

“Allow me to introduce-” Felassan began with mock formality and an elaborate wave.

“Lady Briala,” Jonenn said, hopping down from the mare and quickly falling to one knee. Leval, after a stunned pause, followed suit.

“Please, I am no lady,” Briala said as she joined them. Her accent was one more often heard among the elite of Orlais than in the alienages. “I hold no titles and you need not bow to me.”

“I am sorry, Miss Briala,” Leval replied as she hurried to stand while Jonenn remained as he was. “It is only that we in Val Royeaux heard of what you did in Halamshiral - of the assassination of Lord Mainserai, and the rebellion.”

She noticed a slight movement at the corner of Briala’s mouth, a movement that - if Briala hadn’t been trained as a bard - might have developed into a frown. Instead, she shook her head. “The rebellion was quickly extinguished, and many good people lost as a result. I hope we can prevent the same thing from happening here.”

“Then you … are here to help us?” Jonenn asked, finally looking up.

“I am,” Briala replied with a reassuring smile. She stepped forward, offering Jonenn her hand. He nodded as he took it, and she pulled him to his feet.

“We will barricade the streets as we did in Halamshiral,” Briala began. “If the fighting goes on too long, they will surround the outer wall and attempt to burn down everything within. We must have water ready to wet the apartments nearest to the wall so they will not catch so easily.

“We should hurry to the main gates and block off as many of the streets as we can. Felassan,” Briala said, turning to him. “Perhaps you can pull down some of the largest buildings to make the gate itself impassable.”

The look on Felassan’s face made it clear that not only _could_ he level a city block if need be, but that he would positively love to do so.

“Wait - no,” Jonenn interrupted suddenly. All eyes turned to him.

“No,” Jonenn repeated, his voice quiet but firm. “We will not level our homes or let them set fire to our district. We won’t tear down these apartments so that our families and friends have no place to return to once they are allowed to leave the Empress’ army.”

“ _Dalen_ ,” Felassan said, “What makes you think that your family and friends will ever be allowed to leave dear Celene’s service? If you do not destroy these homes, the chevaliers will likely do it for you.”

It was a harsh statement but a true one. The chevaliers would show the alienage little mercy, particularly after two of their own had been killed, she thought with a wince.

“Please, you must listen to us,” Jonenn tried again. “We _know_ this place!”

Leval stepped forward then, placing herself protectively between Jonenn and Felassan. “He’s right,” she said. “Jonenn has lived here his entire life, and it has been my home since the White Spire fell. We know every bit of this district, and we have prepared for this attack.” She placed her hands on her hips, staring daggers at the four older elves. “Now, you can _help_ us, or you can leave.” She pointed past Felassan and Briala to the person-sized hole in the alienage wall.

After a long silence, it was Solas who spoke.

“We will help you,” he said. “Tell us what to do.”

Leval smiled triumphantly. It was a rare thing to see her smile, and the effect was more menacing than friendly.

“Good. Jonenn and the others have laid traps in all the empty apartments nearest to the gate. He will bait the guards,” Leval continued as Jonenn nodded in agreement, “and lead them inside where he will have the upper hand.”

“I know all of those buildings,” Jonenn explained. “I know where all the traps are and I’ll be able to get in and out safely.”

“But just in case,” Leval said pointedly, “I will go with him. That way, I will be close not only to Jonenn, but to our friends who will also lead the guards into the trapped apartments. If anyone is injured, I can help them immediately.”

“A dangerous plan,” Briala said. She shifted the bow on her shoulder and cast a glance at Felassan.

“It will work,” Jonenn insisted. “The guards will be foolish enough to follow us. But the chevaliers-”

“That’s where you come in,” Leval said to Briala. “Solas will go with you to the rooftops and you will need to pick off as many as you can.”

“Wait. Why must Solas go with Briala? Why can’t it be Felassan?” She hopped down from the roan’s back and held on to its reins as her feet hit the ground. The horse shook its head as shouts rang out far in the distance.

Leval huffed in annoyance at her question before answering. “Because, we have seen what Solas can do, the barriers he can summon from the Fade. Miss Briala is, by all accounts, a very skilled archer. If she has someone who can guard her from ranged attacks, she will be free to take out every target she sees.”

It was a good plan, she realized, though she had no desire to be separated from Solas in the middle of a battle. There was too much at stake to risk losing him here, and if he fell with her by his side, at least she would know that she had done all she could.

At least, that’s what she was telling herself.

“Very well,” she said finally.

“You will go with Felassan,” Leval continued. “Stick to the rooftops, on the opposite side of the district from Briala and Solas. Whatever spells you can rain down upon them, do not hold back.”

“Hah!” Felassan laughed as he stepped up to her and clapped a hand on her shoulder. “We shall have to hold back slightly, I think, or the entire city may burn to the ground.”

Leval stared at him blankly. In the few weeks she’d known the girl, she’d found that Leval had little patience for humor - perhaps why she found Jonenn’s usual silence so appealing.

“We will take the horses,” Leval told them. “The rest of you should make your way to the rooftops. There will be access from nearly any of these buildings,” she said with a wave at the surrounding apartments. Leval pulled herself onto the back of the roan as Jonenn mounted the mare once more.

“ _Fen'Harel enansal_ ,” Jonenn called out as the pair rode off toward the main gate.

The words hung for a beat before Felassan’s deep chuckle boomed through the air.

“I had no idea the tales we have been spreading in the South would have traveled this far,” Briala said quickly. “If they think I am sort of hero for what I did in Halamshiral-”

“Oh, you know how these things go, _dalen_ ,” Felassan assured her through his laughter. “I am sure the Dread Wolf himself would be just as shocked to hear what tales are told of him in this age.”

Her eyes darted to Solas, but his expression remained mostly neutral, save for the slight purse of his lips that told her his patience was wearing thin.

“At any rate, the teenager who is giving us orders will be quite cross if we don’t scurry on to our positions.” Felassan turned to her. “I believe we have a date with fire and brimstone. Shall we get on with it?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “We should head toward the east end of the alienage. You two can head west.” She nodded at Solas and Briala before moving to leave. But as she turned, she felt a hand encircle her wrist. She looked back over her shoulder and eyed Solas questioningly.

His fingers swept down to her palm, and he held her hand tightly in his own. “Be careful,” he whispered. His eyes were pale in the faint light of the morning, grey like the snow clouds that hung in the winter sky. His skin was warm and smooth against hers and he trailed his thumb across her fingertips as he released his grip.

“And you,” she told him as they parted.

Over Solas’ shoulder, she saw Briala watch the exchange with apparent disinterest. But she had seen that same look on Leliana’s face one too many times to be fooled by it again. When she looked back to Felassan, he stared at her appraisingly, as if he hadn’t really seen her until just now.

 

* * *

 

“So, how does it feel, my dear?”

She frowned at Felassan’s back as she followed him up the narrow staircase that led to the rooftop. He was obviously baiting her in some way, but she had no idea what precisely the trap would be. “How does what feel?” she asked, against her better judgment.

“To be so skilled at bringing destruction - at, well, killing people - that you weren’t even considered for one of the girl’s other assignments?” He cast a glance over his shoulder and punctuated his remark with a grin.

“I doubt that Leval thinks I’m especially good at killing people,” she replied with a roll of her eyes. “Merely that Solas and Briala are better suited for specific tasks.”

Felassan chuckled at that. “Ah. I used to tell myself something similar. But eventually you see the pattern, the path you leave behind you.” He pulled open the door to the roof and sunlight spilled into the dark hallway. From this perch, three storeys up, she could just make out the alienage gate far in the distance, though the dense crop of apartments blocked her view of the northernmost streets where Leval and Jonenn planned to encounter the guards.

“Tell me,” Felassan continued as he strode toward the edge of the roof, “how long have you known our mutual friend?”

“He has only been awake for a few weeks,” she said carefully.

“And yet, that was not my question.”

“Well you seem to have a lot of them,” she retorted. Below them, shouts and metallic clangs grew louder. She, too, approached the edge of the roof so she could peer over the side.

On the street where they’d stood just a few minutes ago, a handful of knights processed in a practiced formation. Their armor was silver and polished, and the visors on their helmets were crafted into elaborate masks, each crowned with a large, yellow feather.

She moved backwards and had to quickly regain her balance when she stepped on something round and solid. She peered down at her feet to find a large pile of stone and rubble, neatly gathered together at the corner of the roof, as if it were just waiting for someone to knock it down into the streets below. As she turned to tell Felassan, she noticed that there was another pile near him, as well as one on each side of the building. Squinting against the dawning sun, she saw that the roof of every apartment in her vision had been similarly equipped.

“They trapped the roofs as well!” she said, impressed.

“So I take it you are not going to answer my question?” Felassan asked.

She let out an irritated sigh, wondering whether he was always so chatty in the middle of especially dangerous situations or if it was simply because he had decided to take an interest in her. “Perhaps I would be more inclined to answer some of your questions if you would answer some of mine,” she offered.

“Oh!” Felassan said, delighted. “You propose a game, then?”

“A game?” she asked, incredulous.

“Of course. For every question you ask, I will ask one in return. We will agree to answer truthfully, but for every question of mine you refuse to answer, I may refuse to answer one of yours.”

“You do realize we are supposed to be defending this place from the people attacking it?” she asked him.

“Yes, yes,” Felassan agreed. “But we could have done that with our eyes closed even before you realized they’ve already booby-trapped the roofs for us. We must find _some_ other way to pass the time.” As he spoke, he waved a hand over the pile of rocks at his corner of the building, gathering them into a hovering pile that floated in mid-air before him.

She had a feeling she might regret engaging him, but her curiosity was quickly getting the better of her. “Fine,” she said. Holding her staff out in front of her, she opened her mind to the Fade and brought forth a small pocket of air which enveloped the stones at her feet until they floated at eye-level. “But you’ve already asked one question, so it’s my turn now.”

“Very well,” Felassan conceded with a smirk.

“Ready?” she asked, gesturing down toward the chevaliers with her free hand.

“Always,” he answered with a nod before sending the entire pile of rocks careening downward onto the unsuspecting head of the lead knight.

 _Poor thing never saw it coming_ , she thought as she watched the chevalier crumple to the ground, his feet only just visible beneath the rubble that had crushed him. She let loose her own pile of stones, pushing them through the air with the strength of the wind she had pulled from the Fade, and watched as they pelted the other four knights who’d frozen in place when their leader fell.

“Your vallaslin-” she began as she ran to another corner of the roof to gather the stones left there.

“Yes, yes. My markings are different than the ones you used to wear-” Felassan replied with a bored tone.

“That is not my question,” she interrupted. “I know about the lyrium and the way the markings linked you to the Evanuris you served. I want to know why you still wear them.” She sent another barrage of rocks raining down, but the chevaliers scurried into alcoves and doorways to avoid most of the debris. One particularly large chunk of brick landed on the foot of the nearest man, and he screamed in pain as he fell to one knee.

“You mean, why did I not allow Fen’Harel to remove my vallaslin, as he removed yours?”

“Is that a question?” she fired back.

Felassan laughed. “Well you can’t fault me for trying.” He gathered more stone from the pile at his feet and dropped it upon the head of the chevalier whose foot she had crushed. The man fell to the ground and did not stir. “The answer to your question is that I did not want Fen’Harel to remove my vallaslin.”

“Even knowing that Mythal could use those markings to kill you if she wanted?”

He crooked an eyebrow at her. “Because I am entirely too generous, I will treat that as a part of your first query.” Felassan pointed his staff at the next of the chevaliers and sent a bolt of white lightning careening toward him. The human managed to get his shield down fast enough to protect himself, but the lightning ricocheted into one of his compatriots, who barely had time to yell before the blast knocked him off his feet and into a wall behind him.

“I meant to do that,” Felassan clarified before returning to her question. “When Mythal was murdered, she might have chosen to use the lyrium imbued within each of her followers to save herself. Now, I have no idea whether this would actually have prevented her death, but she didn’t even try. She spared the lives of all who followed her on that day, and I kept her markings out of respect for that sacrifice.”

“We have very different definitions of ‘sacrifice,’” she scoffed.

“Do you see everything in such absolute terms?” Felassan asked. “That Mythal was wrong because she kept slaves, and Fen’Harel was right because he freed them? Surely you must know that truth is more nuanced than that. Our gods were often cruel, it is true, but Mythal kept them in check for ages. Her death was the beginning of something much worse for those who were left behind. If you asked the followers of Mythal who survived that day, you might be surprised to find that many of us would have willingly given our lives if we might have saved hers.

“Now,” he said with a twirl of his staff to clear away the residual aura left by the lightning, “I believe it is my turn.”

Heavy footsteps sounded in the narrow stairwell behind them, and both of the remaining chevaliers appeared at the door. She inhaled a deep breath to steady herself and closed her eyes for just a moment. She envisioned the way this place would look in the Fade, the way the wooden beams of the building sagged with age and wear. She thought of the weight of the soldiers on the staircase, and what a simple thing it would be to-

A deafening _crack_ rang through the air as dozens of wooden stairs split simultaneously, followed shortly by a sickening _crunch_ as the chevaliers fell three storeys and landed on the ground floor. Felassan crossed to the doorway, peering down at the destruction below.

“I suppose we’re not going back down the way we came?” he asked. “On to the next roof, then.”

With a nod, she faced the next apartment to the east and started toward it at a slow run. Just as she reached the edge of the building, she stepped through the Fade to make the jump over the alleyway below. A moment later, Felassan appeared beside her.

“Now,” he said. “Where were we?”

More shouts echoed from the streets as a new contingent of chevaliers found their fallen comrades. She hurried into position near the rocks that the alienage’s rebels had stacked on the roof of this apartment.

“Ah, yes!” Felassan called to her. “Since we are on the topic, why is it that you are looking so much less Dalish these days?”

“I asked Solas to remove my vallaslin because I needed to be able to fit in with the other elves in Val Royeaux,” she explained.

“And was that the only reason?”

She hesitated before replying. “They don’t mean what I thought they did, and I no longer want them.”

Felassan nodded, spinning his staff to summon force from the Fade to levitate more of the nearby stones. “A sound enough reason,” he agreed. “Though, do you not worry what your people will think of you when you return to them?”

“I don’t know if I will return.” _And regardless, they could think no worse of me than they did before_ , she thought.

She began to turn to ask her next question when something flew past her left ear, a hair’s breadth from her face. With a gasp, she fell to a crouch and grabbed hold of the rooftop ledge to steady herself. She peered over the edge to see that Felassan had already responded. The archer who had nearly hit her was now still beneath a pile of rubble, his outstretched hand clutching his bow.

“Why are you helping us?” she asked as she fought to calm her racing pulse.

“Is that your next question?” Felassan said.

“Yes,” she replied. “Why are you helping Briala and the city elves? They’re not your people.”

“The last I heard, these elves are not _your_ people either, unless the Dalish have suddenly decided to embrace their city cousins.”

She scowled at him, but said nothing. Though her own clan and others in eastern Ferelden might have been willing to entertain the possibility of embracing city elves as equals, she had experienced firsthand the way many of the clans who lived in the Dales treated anyone they saw as a flat-ear.

“The truth is, I have no people, _dalen_.” Felassan  crossed to her, offering a hand to help her up. “But this cause is a good one and Briala reminds me of our friend. She believes she can change things, make things better - as he once did.

“There.” Felassan pulled her to her feet and pointed to a group of knights further up the alleyway, huddled close together as they made their way down the road. They peered up at the rooftops above, the terror written in their posture if not visible beneath their masked visors. They had arranged themselves in a defensive formation, with shields covering every side and one held above their heads.

“You see, my dear, in this world there are knights and there are guardians. Knights - like those chevaliers down there - live by a code. They are optimists to the end. They race into battle if they believe in the cause, even when the odds are stacked against them. They believe that change is obtainable, with enough hard work and luck. Briala, despite all she’s seen, still believes she can make a difference.

“But guardians - well, we know better. We are the pragmatists who protect the knights’ illusions. But we know that change is won with fire and blood, and even that - more often than not - is not enough. We know that most of our knights will fall, either to their own naivety or when they become like us. There was an old saying - _the healer has the bloodiest hands._ Guardians, like you and like I, know this to be true.”

For the second time she felt the rush of shame at being told that this was what she had become. What did they see in her that made them so certain she had abandoned her hope?

“Anyhow, how are you at precision aiming?” Felassan asked abruptly.

“Is that your next question?”

Felassan huffed at her. “If you _insist._ ”

“Then give me a target,” she said.

“Oh, I can certainly do that.”

She felt the shift in the Fade as Felassan summoned a great wave of energy. She sensed, more than saw, the force accumulate in the crystal that adorned his staff, before he sent it flying toward the group of chevaliers on the ground.

The blast blew them off their feet, but instead of sending them flying into the surrounding apartments, it _held_ them. A faint green aura surrounded the chevaliers, pulling them into its center, knocking them against one another with violent force.

“Any time now,” Felassan said impatiently.

Fire came the easiest to her in recent years. She suspected it was a byproduct of the anger she harbored, the fury that had grown in her as she saw more and more of her friends cut down before their time. When she let herself wonder why, it worried her - she imagined rage demons snapping at her heels like mabari demanding scraps from a kill. But it was rare that she let herself wonder such things, which were too frightening and inconvenient to sustain for long.

And perhaps that was why she could no longer be a knight.

With a fierce cry she let loose a terrible burst of fire. She felt Felassan drop the aura surrounding the chevaliers for a split second to allow the flame inside. The explosion was immediate, though utterly silent thanks to the force that held it in place. Neither flame nor energy escaped, the blast contained entirely within the sphere he’d summoned.

When he let go of the spell, nothing but ash fell to the ground where the chevaliers had once stood. The bodies of half a dozen others lay broken and bleeding in the streets. Felassan surveyed the destruction for a moment before he turned to her.

“Still think you aren’t good at killing people?”

 

* * *

 

Though the battle itself lasted little more than an hour, the rest of the day was spent in its aftermath. There were bodies to be buried and rubble to cleared from the streets. Jonenn gathered a group of younger elves to fill barrels of water that could be used if the city guard retaliated and decided to set fire to the outer wall. Solas had returned from his assignment with Briala unscathed and, thankfully, showing no signs of exhaustion.

As the end of the day drew near, she, Leval, and Felassan headed to the giant gates that separated the alienage from the rest of the city. Though the hinges groaned in protest and the bottoms of each door cut deep tracks in the ground, together they summoned enough force from the Fade to finally close the gates. There was no practical way to ensure they would remain closed - the giant bar capable of locking it was on the _outside_.

While that thought was somewhat disconcerting, the overall attitude within the district was one of celebration. Only a few had suffered minor injuries during the skirmish, and Leval had quickly tended to each of them in turn. The children, who had hidden away in cellars and dark corners far from the alienage’s entrance, finally returned to the streets. Their innocent laughter filled the evening air as they played in alleyways where, mere hours before, fire and steel had clashed.

And so, it was not surprising that, as the sun set everyone - young and old, those born in the alienage and those who had adopted it as their home - gathered together in one of the larger apartments that stood near the vhenadahl. Jonenn and Leval’s friends retrieved wine and food from a hidden cache, but the celebration did not truly begin in earnest until a trio of elderly gentlemen decided that what the night needed was a bit of music.

She stood beneath the tree, partially hidden in the shadows of its branches, as she watched the celebration from afar. When the apartment itself was too full for comfort, the city elves spilled out into the streets, carrying tables and food out into the brisk night air. The musicians followed, and before long there was singing and dancing beneath the stars.

Today they had won a great victory, it was true, but she knew that Val Royeux could not allow its elven population to rebel so openly. She remembered the political climate of this place around the time of the Conclave. While it was a stretch to say that Celene had been good enough to the elves that her empire’s human population would consider them equals, the Empress had certainly made it a _faux pas_ to be blatantly cruel to them in public. A few robberies - even of powerful households - would not garner enough support for a full march on the alienage.

But tonight they had crossed a line. They had defended themselves violently and passionately against invaders in their home. Celene, if she had returned as Felassan said, would not be able to ignore this affront. In fact, she thought with a worried glance toward the wooden wall in the distance, the human nobles would likely demand action from their Empress as soon as they heard what had happened here.

“The walls are meant to keep them in, not to keep anyone out.”

She hadn’t heard him approach, but she wasn’t surprised to find Solas standing beside her when she looked back from the alienage wall.

“I think they’re well aware of that,” she told him, and he nodded.

“Leval was right. A direct defense would never had worked - with or without our help.”

There was a brief lull in the music as the trio of elderly elves prepared for their next song. One of them - the one who had been singing - said something to the crowd that she couldn’t hear. When the music began again, it was a slow and haunting melody, unlike the upbeat rhythms they’d played before. Couples quickly paired off, with some of the children asking to stand on the feet of the older elves so that they could dance as well.

Near the center of the group were Jonenn and Leval, and she couldn’t help but smile at the pair. Leval, who was taller than her partner, smiled down at him with uncharacteristic kindness. Jonenn, for his part, held Leval as if he carried the whole world in his arms.

“Do you remember the last time we danced?” she heard Solas ask.

Her heart leapt at the thought of it. Halamshiral, beautiful and grand against the night sky, each window sparkling from the candlelight inside. The stillness of the night then, with the sound of the band just barely audible in the distance, as he found her on the balcony. She remembered she had refused him when he first asked for a dance. Though she had helped shape the fate of an empire that night, she was terrified at the notion of moving in time to a bit of music.

But he swept her into his arms and held her close, one hand low around her waist and her cheek pressed against his. The song was lost to memory, but she vividly recalled the kisses afterwards, heady and desperate, as desire and wine were finally allowed to replace propriety.

“I remember I told you that I didn’t dance,” she answered, finally.

“And yet, I recall that you did.” Solas reached out to touch her, running his fingers past her jaw and his thumb across her cheek. She froze, thinking he was about to pull her in for a kiss.

“I have missed you more than I can say,” he whispered.

She recognized the flush in his face and lips that told her he’d had a bit of wine. He had always been a little more honest then, his tongue a little freer than it might be otherwise. In the old days, she had lived for those moments when she saw his mask fall slightly and caught sight of the depths that lay below. But as much as she looked forward to learning more about him, Solas’ honesty had always come at a cost. She saw something else of him on those nights, a man with more knowledge and grace than the one she’d come to know. It had bothered her to realize he was hiding so much of himself - even from her.

She’d had no idea.

 _My heart_ , she thought, her eyes locked on his. _My one love_.

But out loud she merely said his name in a warning whisper as she watched Felassan approach from a table near the apartment. Solas dropped his hand from her cheek quickly and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Am I interrupting?” Felassan asked coyly as he joined them.

“As always,” Solas muttered.

Felassan laughed, undeterred. “I promise not to take up much of your time, then.” He smirked at her then and she quickly turned away. “I merely wanted to ask if you recognized the song.”

Solas crooked a confused eyebrow at Felassan before turning his attention to the musicians in the distance. After listening for a few moments he said, “The music is familiar, though the words have changed much.”

“The translation has confused some of the meaning,” Felassan agreed.

“This is an elvhen song?” she asked.

“A very sad, very old song,” Felassan explained. “A love lost who can only be found in dreams, and - even there - what the dreamer remembers are merely fragments of a melody that reminds them of sweeter days.”

Something in his voice made her turn back. Felassan’s smile had faded completely and, for once, there was no mischief in his eyes or mirth in his tone. Solas turned as well and gave his friend a long look that she couldn’t read before he abruptly walked away from both of them.

“What was that about?” she asked Felassan as they watched Solas join Briala at one of the outdoor tables.

“Guilt,” he answered plainly and with an air that conveyed she shouldn’t inquire further. She didn’t, allowing him a moment to regroup from whatever it was that had just passed between him and Solas. When Felassan spoke again, he had returned to his usual, light-hearted tone.

“Well, now that we’re alone, I have one more question for you.”

“Very well,” she replied as she folded her arms across her chest. “But I believe it was my turn.”

Felassan chuckled approvingly and clapped her on the shoulder. “Of course! What was I thinking? Tell me your question.”

“Where is the focus - the Orb of Fen’Harel?” she asked, with no hesitation.

“Ah, a simple one,” Felassan replied. “I have no idea where it is. Now-”

“You must know,” she interrupted. “You said something to Solas about placing the orb in the path of a magister.”

“Oh!” he said with feigned innocence. “You misunderstand. I mean to say that I have no idea where it is _now_. I do know where it _was_.” He smirked, obnoxiously.

“Then where _was_ it?” she fired back.

“That is another question, I believe.”

She was beginning to discover why Solas found him so infuriating.

“Fine,” she conceded with an angry sigh. “What’s your question?”

Flashing a triumphant smile, Felassan folded his arms across his chest, imitating her posture. But then his smile faded as he gave her that same appraising stare he had at the beginning of the day.

“What are your intentions with him?” he asked.

She felt her jaw drop before she could stop it. Struggling to recover, she screwed her face into what she hoped was a confused grimace and said the first thing that came to mind.

“What are you, his father?”

She thought that might get a laugh out of him at least, but Felassan’s face was still surprisingly serious when he answered.

“I am not, but I am the closest thing to family he has left.” Felassan paused, and she saw him mull his words over before he continued.

“I have known that man nearly his entire life,” he said with a glance toward the table where Solas sat. “And never, in the years I have known him, have I seen him look at anything or anyone the way he looks at you.”

She thought her heart might burst from her chest if it beat any faster.

“Are you telling me to stay away from him?” she asked.

“Far from it,” he said, shaking his head. “I want to know if you feel the same way that he obviously does.”

She had no reason to trust this man. She knew little about him, aside from his former allegiances and how good he seemed to be at killing people who got in his way. He had knowingly and willingly placed the focus into Corypheous’ hands and seemed to have no concern for the damage that might cause.

But on the other hand, she thought, she was isolated in this world. Her situation was delicate and lent itself to secrecy - until this moment, Solas had been her only potential confidant. How much harm would be caused by confirming what Felassan already seemed to know?

“Yes,” she admitted with a nod that felt more defeated than it should. “I love him. I love him so much it feels like I’m drowning. But - it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. We are from two different worlds. There is no place here that we can call home together. We tried once and everything went to ruin. I love him, but he can’t know it. _Please_.”

She hadn’t meant to say so much, but once the words started she couldn’t stop them. She choked back the tears that wanted to come and stared down at her feet.

“ _Dalen_ ,” Felassan said quietly. “I will keep your secret. But know this. You feel like you are drowning because your lungs are full of the words you won’t say. There will come a time when you can hold your breath no longer.”

“I won’t,” she mumbled. “I won’t let him know.”

“What a shame then.” He shook his head. “But perhaps I should have seen. You are too much of a guardian to take such a risk with your heart.”

She’d had just about enough of his condescending advice.

“ _Hahren_ ,” she replied with icy sarcasm. “You say that I see things in absolutes. But what about you? You tell me that I can be only one thing or the other - only your jaded Guardian or your naive Knight. Is there no middle ground? Can I not have my eyes open to the world and still find room for hope in my heart?”

“What you describe would require a love built upon unshakable trust,” Felassan said. “To love someone with your entire heart when you have seen the ugliness of the world - that is an act of faith. So I suppose the question you must ask yourself is whether you believe in him.”

Her head swam and her ears rang as she heard Imshael’s words from Felassan’s mouth. She placed a hand on the trunk of the great tree behind them to steady herself. After a few breaths, the dizziness and fear dissipated. There was still more she needed to know.

"Where  _was_ the orb?" she asked deliberately.

"It was in a temple in the desert. Hidden away after the Dread Wolf betrayed his people, sealed with unknown magic, so that he would never be able to use his full power against them again - or so the legends say," Felassan answered.

 _Solassan_ , she thought. "Are you certain it has been moved?"

In the candlelight that shone from the table in the distance, she saw Solas push away from the table where he sat with Briala in an angry, exaggerated motion.

"These days I am certain of absolutely nothing my dear," Felassan answered as he watched the exchange by the apartment. “Those two seem to be getting along as well as could be expected for a pair who enjoys fighting about politics as much as they do. I suppose I should go see whether Briala has any more stories she wants me to spread about the Dread Wolf and his little rebellion.

"Thank you for the game. Perhaps one day we will have a rematch!" With a smile that left her to wonder precisely who he thought had won, Felassan set off to rejoin his companion.

In the moonlight’s glow, she saw Solas lean against the wooden wall of the apartment. His eyes were on the celebration but he was apart - alone.

The temple in the desert. The army at their backs. The wolf in her dreams. The tear that would rend the sky in a matter of months.

Who had time for love and hope when the world threatened to burn itself down at every turn?

She chewed her bottom lip.

And then she made a leap of faith.

He didn’t notice her approach from the shadows of the vhenadahl. He didn’t see her at all until she was close enough to reach out and wrap her fingers around his wrist. He looked down at her, a curious smile upon his lips.

“I haven’t forgotten the dance,” she told him.

Solas needed no further encouragement. He reached out for her, placing his palm at the small of her back and spreading his fingers below. She wrapped an arm around his neck and he drew her in close, her chest pressed against his. He took her hand and they began to dance.

The moon was bright and shining and happy laughter echoed around them. She laid her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes, and she felt her lips brush the soft skin of his neck. And though she felt the worrying push of the wolf's jawbone against her chest, she wondered what was worth fighting for, if not this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I'm ONLY hitting 50k words and I can't believe I FINALLY hit 50k words on this. Thanks for reading! <3


	14. Shemlen

She awoke to the sound of a cock crowing, immediately annoyed that she had slept past the sunrise and yet doubly annoyed that she was awake at all. Her neck was stiff and sore, as she’d slept partially upright upon a pile of pillows stacked against a corner wall. 

She tried to sit up but felt a weight upon her chest that prevented her doing so. When she looked down she found the weight was, in fact, Solas. His head rested heavily upon her as he snored softly against her stomach. The memory of the night before overwhelmed her as she gazed upon his face. 

The dance had been … _well_ , it had been strange, if she was being honest with herself. The feeling of being _held_ was slowly becoming familiar once again. But Solas had been different last night as well. In the years before he had always been hesitant - to a point. There were moments between them when he might have been first to speak, but he had never been first to act. Always he had waited for her to open the door, invite him in, before he then hurried beyond the threshold. When he had drawn her into his arms last night, she’d half expected that same rushed exultation that had always been Solas’ response to her pursuit.

Instead, she’d found a partner whose every move was a delicate, unspoken question. When he’d placed his palm upon her back, he had looked into her eyes as if to ask, _May I touch you like this_? And in response, she had smiled up at him. Each time his hand slid lower, until it could no longer properly be said that it rested upon her back at all, his eyes had whispered to her again.

_Is this too much? Is this too far? May I touch you here? May I sweep the hair from beside your cheek and allow my hand to linger? May I pull you closer so that I can feel your heart against my chest? May I whisper in your ear? May I press my cheek to yours?_

And to each of these unspoken questions, she had answered, happily, wordlessly.

 _Yes._  
_Yes.  
_ _Yes._

For what value was there in faith not given freely - and if not given freely, was it even worthy of the name?

But now, in the stark light of the morning without Felassan to goad her or the moonlight to charm her, she found faith an unequal match to their harsh reality. It was hard to see what point there was in her feelings - and in his, which had been made all too apparent. She could hear Keeper Deshanna’s words as plainly as if the old woman stood beside her.

_A bird may love a fish, but where will they build a home?_

What good did it do to believe him, to love him, when they were running headlong toward a divide they could not cross together?

 _It would be kinder in the long run_ , she thought helplessly, and understood. And yet she watched the soft rise and fall of his chest, traced her fingers across the freckles on his cheek, and wondered at the beauty and cruelty of a world that would bring them together again.

All around the room, families and couples were similarly snuggled together atop makeshift piles of pillows and beneath threadbare blankets. The fire that had burned in the hearth the night before was now mere embers, and the alienage’s residents huddled close together to guard against the chill of the late winter morning. All that was missing was the swaying sails of the aravels, she realized with a sudden wave of homesickness. 

Slowly, trying not to wake him, she retrieved her arm from beneath Solas. Her sleep had been a dreamless one, with neither burning forests nor the safety of the rotunda to interrupt her rest. She was uncertain whether she had been too exhausted after the previous day’s battle for her mind to enter the Fade, or if it was Solas who had been too exhausted to construct their usual meeting space.

Few of the elves had stirred as of yet, still caught in the happy web of the prior evening’s celebrations. But across the room from her, she saw Felassan stretched out across a long sofa, his longer legs still dangling off its edge. He lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and holding the lute that he must have borrowed from one of the elderly musicians. He strummed the strings absently, plucking away at the same melody he’d questioned Solas about the night before. From where she sat, she could hear that he was singing softly, though she was unable to make out the words.

She saw neither Leval nor Jonenn, but Briala had seated herself at a round table near the large windows that looked out on the vhenadahl. A teaset sat on the table in front of her and she clutched a mug between her hands. It did not take Briala long to realize she was being stared at.

“You are welcome to join me,” Briala offered. “That is - if you’re able,” she added with a quick glance toward Solas.

After a few moments’ work to free herself from beneath Solas’ weight, she made her way to Briala, rolling her stiff shoulders as she crossed the room.

“You’re not used to sleeping in such simple accommodations?” Briala asked. Though her tone was neutral, there was something behind it that sounded a bit unfriendly. 

“Simple, yes,” she replied as she sat next to Briala. “Indoors, no. And I’m not used to quite so many pillows. I think they somehow made it worse.”

She gave the woman a small smile and hoped it might smooth whatever strangeness was between them. But Briala merely stared at her.

“You are Dalish.”

It was more accusation than question.

“Felassan told you that?” she asked, reaching across the table for the teapot and a cup.

“He didn’t need to,” Briala answered before taking a long sip of tea. After a pause, she explained.

“You carry yourself differently than my people. Your walk is swift, confident. You do not peer around corners before you turn down them because you’ve never had to wonder whether you might not be wanted on that particular street. You cut down humans with no fear of the consequence. And your hair,” Briala continued with a wave toward her head. “No city elf wears her hair like that.”

 _Bards_ , she thought with mild annoyance. She took a sip of her own tea to buy some time as she decided how best to respond. But, of course, Briala was more than familiar with such a trick.

The woman who had been the spymaster to an empress, the most powerful elf in Orlais, and an exceptional player of the Game leaned forward over the table and stared into her eyes for a few uncomfortable moments. She suddenly felt quite aware that more formidable opponents than she had undoubtedly crumbled beneath Briala’s scrutiny. 

“What is it you want from us?” Briala asked in a hissed whisper. “Why have you finally lowered yourself to sleep and eat and fight beside us flat-ears?”

She recoiled slightly from the other woman’s anger. The Briala she remembered had never expressed such hostility toward the Dalish - or at least had never done so to her face, she considered. As Inquisitor she had been blind to many such nuances. Though the Orlesian court might not have been wary enough to hide its contempt of her kind, a city elf - and a bard - would have been more astute.

Had Briala always felt this way, she wondered, suddenly questioning the help she had received so many years ago.

Briala saw the confusion on her face and pounced upon it.

“You’ve been sent to take the Eluvians, haven’t you?” the bard demanded.

“Th - the Eluvians?” she stammered in response. “I have no intention of taking them from you. I wouldn’t even know how to do so.”

“Perhaps you will summon a demon to aid you,” Briala said with unmistakable venom.

She was at a loss to understand this hostility. “Have I done something to offend you, Briala?” she asked with as much deference as she could muster.

Briala scoffed. “Your people attacked me and my allies when we were at our weakest. You summoned magics you didn’t understand, and put the pursuit of history before the lives of your own clanmates.” Her brown eyes darkened as she continued. 

“I spent my childhood dreaming of what it would be like to be free, to belong. To live in a place where I simply was worthy - not where I was worthy because I was useful,” Briala said. “But I see the truth now. Your people are not free. You’re just as much slaves as we are - except your masters are tradition and history, which you could set aside at a whim.”

“And if we did set them aside,” she said, eyes narrowing to return Briala’s stare, “what would that make us?”

Briala’s angry grimace told her she’d asked the wrong question.

“Why, it would make you like us,” Briala said, her voice low and menacing. “Flat-ears. Slaves. _Shemlen_.”

 _Oh_ , she suddenly realized. _I see_.

She understood better than she could possibly explain to Briala, whose furious eyes told her that sympathy would be neither welcomed nor believed. But she too knew what it meant to think she’d found her people, only to discover that they were repulsed by the very idea of her.

 _Shemlen_ , she’d been called by that cursed priest of Mythal’s. She knew that it literally translated to “quickling,” which she was, of course - she would never survive the years her ancestors had. But she knew the truth of the word as well. What _shemlen_ really meant was “not like us.”

 _Not my people_ , she remembered despite her efforts not to.

But empathy was not the right instrument for this moment. Though she despised the Game, she was still the woman who had been Inquisitor. She wouldn’t desecrate the memories of Josephine Montilyet and the Divine Victoria by failing to see the weakness her opponent had exposed.

“You’ve met the Dalish of the Free Marches, then?” she asked Briala, who responded with a cold look, as she expected.

“Because that is where _my people_ are from,” she continued. “I am the First of Clan Lavellan, lately of the Vimmark Mountains near Ostwick. And, since it seems as if this is what you want, on behalf of _my people_ I apologize for the offenses you suffered at the hands of a few fools who happen to share our name. I cannot provide excuses for them as I do not know them. Nor can I tell you whether their ends justified their means, as I have no knowledge of their motivations.

“What I can tell you,” she continued in a tone as icy as Briala’s stare, “is that I am not here on the orders of my clan, nor do I intend to steal anything from you. My reasons for coming to Val Royeaux are my own, but my reason for staying is simple - I saw a group of _my people_ in desperate need and I wanted to help them however I could.”

Briala raised an eyebrow, but she couldn’t tell whether it was a reaction of disbelief, surprise, or something else.

“And now that I have made my apologies, perhaps I can trouble you to make amends for every Orlesian who has ever threatened my life or otherwise offended me. I assure you,” she said, pitching her voice low to match Briala’s tone, “the list of transgressions is as long as the Imperial Highway.”

There was a moment of silence between them but it did not last long. Briala took in a short breath and let out a sigh. It wasn’t quite a smile, and it was far from a laugh, but it was clear her show of strength had been appreciated.

“I see your point,” Briala conceded.

“Perhaps then, in the interest of saving time, we should consider these offenses forgiven and begin anew?” she asked carefully.

Briala postponed her answer as she reached for the teapot and poured herself another cup. Once her task was complete, she finally responded.

“Perhaps,” Briala agreed with a nearly imperceptible smile.

As if in response to the increasing noise in the room, Solas snored a bit louder in the corner.

“I think I like your friend better when he’s asleep,” Briala told her.

“Most people do,” she replied with a smirk.

“Is he Dalish as well?”

“No.” She had a feeling that, whenever possible, truth would be the best option when dealing with Briala. _Besides_ , she thought, _Solas would likely be terrible at_ -

“That’s good, at least he isn’t lying to you about it,” Briala interrupted her thoughts.

“I - I’m sorry?” she stammered.

“Your friend is clearly not Dalish, nor is he from the city,” Briala explained, lowering her voice somewhat. “He might have tried to lie to you about his origins, as Felassan lied to me.” Briala gestured quickly toward where Felassan reclined on the sofa, still strumming at the lute and - apparently - paying no attention to their conversation.

“Felassan told you he was Dalish?” she asked Briala, suddenly understanding.

“A stupid mistake on my part,” Briala admitted. “I couldn’t judge the truth of his claims because I had no other means of comparison - I’d never met a Dalish elf before. It was easy enough to see that he was not like me or any other elves I’d known in the city, and so it made sense when he claimed to be Dalish.” She lowered her voice again. “At the time, I did not realize there was another option.”

She stared down at her tea, avoiding Briala’s gaze. Watching the steam rise and cut through the cold morning air, she weighed her options. It was clear that Felassan had confided in Briala - to one degree or another - and that Briala had also pieced together much on her own. But, whatever it was that Briala guessed Felassan to be, surely she could not have imagined the truth. What reasonably skeptic, logical person - even when faced with mounting evidence - would truly believe that there were elves still living now who had known life on Thedas long before the creation of the Veil?

 _No_ , she decided. _Whatever Briala thinks, it cannot be that._ Even she, who had seen the guardians of the Well of Sorrows with her own eyes, and who had witnessed the power wielded by Fen’Harel knew these things for what they were - an impossible truth. It was a revelation and a burden she was unready to lay upon another soul.

So she changed the subject.

“You and Solas quarreled last night.” She looked up at Briala. “May I ask what it was you discussed?”

It was clear from Briala’s knowing expression that her dodge had not gone unnoticed. But Briala folded her arms and leaned forward on the table, looking pointedly at the sleeping figure in the corner before she finally answered. “Let me see,” she said, tapping a finger against her arm. “The future of the elves in Val Royeaux. Whether this alienage can successfully stand against another attack. And, whether equality for my people can be achieved by working within the empire.”

“Is that all?” she asked Briala with a smirk. “Why not find a cure for the Blight as well?”

Briala let out a short laugh in reply. “If last night’s conversation was any indication, we wouldn’t get very far,” she replied dismissively. “We found very little we could agree upon.

“Your friend was quite certain that Orlais will never willingly provide my people any real measure of freedom. He insisted that any concessions made - an elf as a member of the nobility, for example - would be nothing more than distractions to appease us without ever truly giving us a voice.”

“But you believe more can be achieved by working with the nobility?” she asked Briala.

“At the very least, I believe it is wasteful to throw away the progress we have made in the last few years,” Briala explained. “Nor can I condone turning these children into revolutionaries.”

 “They fight for their own future,” she offered.

“While that is true,” Briala agreed, “it doesn’t give us license to be reckless with their lives.”

“I can’t imagine any of us intends to do that,” she said with more conviction than she felt. Too often in the past few weeks she’d found it disturbingly simple to be reckless with people’s lives.

“But it is clear he favors a total split from Orlais,” Briala continued. “Specifically, he argued that ‘empires are necessarily devoted to self-preservation,’” lightly imitating Solas’ tone as she recited his words. “As if that’s somehow a justification for anarchy.”

Solas had a point about the Orlesians’ reaction to an elf noble - though she couldn’t easily explain this to Briala. She was beginning to understand that foresight was more of a curse than a blessing.

“The one point upon which we could agree,” Briala said, “is that this alienage must be evacuated sooner rather than later. I sympathize with its residents who want to remain in their homes, but it is simply an untenable goal.”

“Deciding our fates for us once again, I see,” a cold voice interrupted from the hall’s open door. Leval stood watching them, her slight frame wrapped in a heavy woolen coat and her hair tucked into a knitted tam.

“Your disapproval,” Briala replied with a frown, “will not change the fact that this alienage is little more than poorly fortified kindling for the imperial army. Far too many of our people have died defending homes like these in the last few weeks. I have no desire to see that happen here.”

“Well then, I suppose it would surprise you to hear that I agree with you.” Leval crossed the room to join them at the table.

“If you agree with Briala, then why are we still here?” she asked as Leval helped herself to a cup of tea.

“Two reasons,” the girl replied. “First, we have nowhere to go. For most of us, this has been the only home we have ever known. But second, and more to the point, the people of this alienage will not leave unless Jonenn tells them to do so.”

“And Jonenn doesn’t believe that it’s time to leave?” she asked.

Leval shook her head. “Jonenn knows that our people are afraid of what leaving would mean. Their families have been carted off to serve in the Empress’ army and, if we leave Val Royeaux, we are leaving them behind as well. We can’t abandon the city without abandoning them.”

“But you disagree?” Briala asked.

“I don’t want to leave our people behind, if that’s what you’re asking,” Leval explained. “But unlike Jonenn, I know what it is to be separated from family and forced to make a new home elsewhere. It may be difficult, but they will make do just as I did.”

“You were a Circle mage?” she said, finally asking a question to which she had suspected the answer for quite some time.

“Until the White Spire fell, yes,” Leval nodded. “Most of the other mages ran toward the west when the phylacteries were destroyed. But all I wanted was to find Jonenn.”

“So you became an apostate?” Briala asked, though not unkindly, and Leval smirked back at her.

“Apostate. Circle mage. Abomination. Rabbit. Knife-ear,” Leval counted on her fingers as she recited. “It seems I have held many titles since my birth here in _glorious_ Val Royeaux,” she said with a grimace. “But now, the only one that matters is _free_.

“Jonenn is wrong to be sentimental about this place. It is a prison that we decorated and made our own, but it’s still a prison. I’ll shed no tears if it burns.”

“Can’t you convince the others?” Briala asked.

Leval answered with a quick shake of her head. “No. You’ll see - it doesn’t matter that I was born here or that I’ve returned and fought beside them. They don’t see me like they see Jonenn. We’re not the same,” she shrugged.

She turned to Leval as Briala sighed heavily into her cup. “If you can’t convince the others, can you at least convince Jonenn?” 

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do?” Leval snapped back at her. “I can see the writing on the wall as plainly as you two. But there is nowhere for us to go and Jonenn will not leave with so many of our people held captive within Celene’s army.”

She thought she saw, for just a moment, Briala bristle slightly at the mention of the Empress’ name. But whatever she’d seen, it was gone as quickly as it came.

“If Jonenn and some of the others are willing to lend a hand,” Briala offered, “I believe there are ways we can … _relieve_ the Imperial Army of its new recruits.”

To this, at last, Leval nodded. “Now that is something I’m certain he would agree to.”

“It will take some doing,” Briala murmured as she drummed her fingers on the table, thinking. “But I suspect we may be able to free quite a few of your people from the camp at the Sun Gate before the army’s commanders realize what is happening.”

“All well and good,” Leval agreed. “But once you free them, where will you take them? It’s no good to bring them back to the alienage when we’re trying to get everyone out of this place.”

 _A safe place_ , she considered as she listened to Leval and Briala. _Somewhere far from this alienage - far from Orlais if we can manage it. Large enough to accommodate the elves of this alienage, and perhaps far more if necessary._

The answer was so obvious that she hesitated to consider it. For a moment, she couldn’t help but wonder whether history’s pull was such an overbearing force that their choices were, in fact, finite. It was as if she had been handed a puzzle with the same pieces she’d used before and told to rearrange them into a new final design. And that, she thought, sounded like utter folly.

Yet, their need was undeniable and the answer was clear.

“I may have a suggestion,” she interrupted, quietly.

“Yes?” Leval replied.

“I know of an abandoned fortress. Not a ruin,” she said quickly, seeing the doubtful look on Leval’s face. “But an intact, functioning fortress that could provide the protection you seek.”

“Our people are not soldiers,” Leval said, shaking her head. “I’m not going to free them from one army just to force them into some other type of military service. They’re merchants and servants and … and, I don’t know - bakers! They wouldn’t know what to do with a fortress.”

“Then don’t think of it as a fortress,” she suggested. “What’s important is that it’s a _home_ \- a safe home.” She bit her lip as she tried to think of a way to make Leval understand.

“Consider it a village, if you will. Yes, it has a fortress at its heart, but there is space surrounding it and buildings to be used as needed.  It’s a place you can call your own and where you can be free to live as you please. You’ll need people of all sorts there to till the land and cook the food and maintain the battlements. It’s not unlike your alienage, except in the way that’s most important - it will be _yours_.”

“What you describe is too good to be true,” Leval said with an accusatory frown.

“I agree,” Briala replied, similarly doubtful. “Where exactly is this fortress you describe? I find it difficult to believe I haven’t heard of such a place.”

She clenched her mug tightly in her hands and paused before she spoke. This, she knew, would be the hardest part to sell.

“It’s hidden away in the mountains,” she finally answered Briala.

“Which mountains?” Leval asked.

“Toward the west?” Briala guessed.

“No …” she answered slowly. “Toward the east. The Frostbacks.”

“In _Fereldan_?” Briala said incredulously. Leval’s gaping mouth and pinched eyebrows told her the girl was similarly offended at the idea.

“Are you out of your mind?” Leval spat, whatever optimism she’d momentarily found now gone. “You want us to … to pack up everything we have and march all of our people, young and old alike, not only out of our country but up into some frigid mountain pass?”

“What you’re talking about is a second Long Walk,” Briala added. “And just as only a handful of the elves who left from Tevinter survived the trip to the Dales, the very young and very old will not survive a journey like the one you suggest.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” she told Briala. “There are _other ways_ ,” she said pointedly, “to travel such distances.”

But Briala merely frowned again. “I cannot simply send someone anywhere in Thedas using these _other ways_. There must be a … a doorway somewhere near the desired destination.”

Leval glanced from Briala’s face to hers, clearly unamused that they were speaking around her.

“I believe,” came Solas’ voice from behind her, “that if you seek it out, you will find a ‘doorway’ very near to this fortress in the Frostbacks.” She looked over her shoulder to see him approaching from the pile of pillows that had been their bed the night before.

“And how could you know that?” Briala questioned him.

“My journeys in the Fade have allowed me to see the locations of many such artifacts,” Solas answered matter-of-factly.

 _Of course they have_ , she thought, summoning all her willpower to ensure she wouldn’t roll her eyes at him.

Briala was less than convinced as well. “I will not lead these people through unfamiliar territory based on some hunch you have because of what a spirit told you,” she said, narrowing her eyes at Solas.

“You can trust him on this, _dalen_ ,” Felassan chimed in from his place on the sofa. “Solas excels at finding only the very most trustworthy of spirits to provide him only the very most esoteric information.”

“You are all getting ahead of yourselves again,” Leval complained to the four of them. “I don’t understand how precisely you think you can get us to Fereldan safely - and you will explain that to me before I agree to anything - but you won’t ever have the chance to do so if we can’t convince Jonenn.”

“You have the best chance of that, Leval,” Briala told her. “And I I suggest that you speak to Jonenn while Felassan and I work on freeing your people from their involuntary commissions to the imperial army. And the two of you,” Briala said, turning to her and Solas. “If you have some idea of how long this journey might take, you should organize the provisions needed to get us there.”

Solas nodded in agreement.

“Then it is settled,” Briala said with finality. “With a spot of luck and no small amount of effort, we may have safer lodgings in the very near future.” Briala pushed herself back from the table and started toward the door. “Even if they are in Fereldan,” she muttered under her breath.

Leval also pushed her chair away from the table, fixing her and Solas with a look as she stood. “This fortress had better not smell like wet dogs,” Leval said in a tone that implied she was certain it could smell like nothing else.

 

* * *

 

Two days and two nights passed as Briala’s plans quickly coalesced. With Felassan’s aid as well as that of several of the alienage evles, Briala conducted multiple raids on the army camps each night after sundown, bringing back a dozen or more people which each successful trip. Their numbers in the alienage grew little by little as residents returned to the homes they’d been forced to abandon. 

Leval, it was clear, had spent much time appealing to Jonenn. While she’d not been privy to their conversations, she and Solas were still spending enough time in Jonenn and Leval’s small apartment that she could not help but see the strain between the young couple. And, truth be told, as much as she agreed with Briala and Leval that they _must_ leave the alienage as soon as they could, she understood Jonenn’s resistance as well.

It was all too easy to allow her gaze drift to the low branches of the vhenadahl. The yellow and blue ribbons still clung to one another there, moved by the winter breeze but fixed to the spot where Solas had tied them, a constant reminder of the promise he’d made to her. And now, a reminder of yet another home she would soon abandon.

It had seemed so simple when she was younger. The aravels were her home then, and so she needed no hearth, but merely the shadow of their sails to know she was where she belonged. The constant movement hadn’t bothered her then because it was only the scenery that changed. The things that mattered - the faces, the names - stayed the same.

Skyhold had been a good home to her while she could stand the sight of it, and before all the familiar faces left. While a part of her was eager to return to the place that had seen some of her happiest memories, another part was exhausted by the thought of it. Ever since she had suggested the destination to Leval and Briala, she’d been unable to shake the feeling that she had sealed her own fate in the process. A return to Skyhold, she feared, was the first step on a path she could not alter and whose desperate ending she’d already seen.

Beyond this, she also worried that Skyhold wasn’t necessarily hers to offer. Though she had attempted, on more than one occasion, to broach the subject with Solas, he remained resolutely indifferent. Skyhold, Solas insisted, was rightfully hers now and would listen to none of her arguments that technically he hadn’t given it to her … at least not yet.

And so it was on an overcast afternoon she found herself searching through an abandoned shop for provisions and reminiscing about the homes she had left in her lifetime. Her thoughts were interrupted by a rapping on the door, and she turned to see Solas poke his head into the room.

“Solas -” she began with a smile that was not returned.

“My apologies,” he said quickly and with a tone that made her stomach drop. Something was the matter.

“What is it?”

“There is a disturbance at the main gate.”

She frowned at him, confused. “Disturbance? I don’t understand - are we being attacked again?”

“That remains uncertain,” Solas replied, shaking his head. “For the moment, forces on both sides are at something of a standstill. Leval is attempting to speak with the soldiers sent by the Empress-”

“Leval is doing WHAT?” she asked, suddenly understanding the gravity of the situation. She dropped the sack she was holding which contained everything of value she’d found in the shop and rushed across the room to Solas. “Let’s go,” she said as she placed her hand in his.

Solas nodded, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze as she followed him out the door and into the narrow streets. They hurried toward the gates, past the sacred tree at the alienage’s heart, whose colorful decorations shuddered in the swelling wind.

 

* * *

 

“Lay your weapons down!” 

Leval’s voice, confident and unafraid, cut through the air. She had climbed atop the carriage they’d used to travel back and forth from the estate district on their raids. In her right hand she held her staff down at her side, at the ready if needed while not threatening those to whom she spoke.

A small group from the alienage surrounded her on the ground, armed with the few weapons they’d been able to find or make. Beyond them, pushing through a narrow opening in the alienage gates were dozens of figures, each wearing a shoddy-looking set of armor. She squinted into the distance, peering at the faces of the soldiers who had made their way into the alienage itself, and then quickly clapped a hand over her mouth as she gasped in shock 

They were all elves.

“What is this?” she asked desperately as she and Solas reached the group that had encircled Leval. Jonenn, with Briala and Felassan nearby, stood at the back of the crowd and answered her with terrified eyes.

“She’s sent our own people to force a surrender,” Jonenn explained, his voice higher than usual. “The Empress, she told our people - the ones she forced into her army - that this was their last chance to get us to open our gates peacefully. And … and if we do not,” Jonenn hesitated, staring up at Leval. “If we do not, they’ve been ordered to attack - and should they refuse to attack, the chevaliers will burn down the alienage with all of us inside.”

Her breath caught in her chest and she looked up at the wooden walls pointlessly - as if they might suddenly reveal a method of escape.

“Empress Celene has found a way to make it appear as if those of you who have sealed the alienage are being selfish and endangering the lives of the very people you mean to protect,” Solas observed. “Her orders give the appearance of choice where there truly is none. It is … a prudent plan.”

“A cruel and monstrous plan, I am certain you meant to say,” she shot back at Solas, who had the good sense to be cowed by her reaction.

“Unforgivable,” Briala whispered as her hands balled into fists at her sides. From beneath the folds of Felassan’s cloak, she saw his hand reach out discretely to grasp Briala’s elbow.

“Please,” Leval entreated the soldiers at the gate, oblivious to the discussion below her. “You believe attacking us is the only way to save our homes. But I tell you, perhaps these homes are not worth saving!” A surprised murmur ran through the crowd.

Jonenn looked between them and Leval’s figure on the coach above, his eyes wide with growing panic. “Won’t someone tell her to come down? It isn’t safe up there.”

She scanned the crowd of soldiers quickly. Many had drawn their weapons when they came upon the gathering of alienage elves, but none had approached any farther. They seemed willing to at least hear Leval’s words.

“We can’t bring her down now,” she told Jonenn. “The situation is too delicate - the crowd may think we are moving to attack them.”

“And besides,” Briala added, “if you stop her now, you’ll only undermine her words. Let her finish what she’s started.”

Jonenn let out a nervous huff and placed his hand upon the sword at his hip, but said no more.

“We have made these homes something to be proud of, even when our streets are invaded nightly by thieves and murders. But it will never matter how much good we bring to this place when the Empress of Orlais believes she can play god with our lives! Celene is not our Maker and we owe no fealty to an empire built upon our backs and the backs of our ancestors!”

Another hum ran through the crowd, this time accompanied by a few shouts. Some seemed enthusiastic, but others called her words treason. Even the elves that stood near the carriage below Leval were stunned at her boldness. Jonenn’s shock was evident, but Briala narrowed her eyes and fixed her gaze on Solas.

“Are these your words?” Briala accused.

“Certainly not,” Solas insisted, his face drawn and grave. “Though I will not deny that I agree with them.”

“Easy talk, from a mage!” yelled a voice from somewhere in the throng of soldiers, followed by cries and nods of assent. “How simple it must be to be unafraid when you can bend demons to your will!”

The crowd seethed and pushed forward as more weapons were drawn and arrows notched in longbows. Her heart pounded in her ears as dread stabbed at her heart, and she watched Leval’s grip tighten on her staff, knuckles white. But when Leval responded, her voice was as calm and even as before.

“You think I’m unafraid because you believe I have more power than you. Look around you,” Leval said with a sweeping gesture at the crowd. “Your Empress has sent you to finish a fight her chevaliers could not win.”

“It’s not because I’m a mage that I’m unafraid,” Leval told them. “It’s because I have seen the fear in the Empress’ heart - a fear that grows each moment we are together. It is a fear that her servants will be taken from her, that her great empire will be abandoned by the very people who cook their lavish meals and clean their extravagant manors. It is a fear that _we_ , who are told we have no power, will abandon _them_ who know they could not survive without us.

“ _Lethallen_ , I have seen the fear of Orlais and it tells me that we are free!”

With a joyful shout, Leval thrust her staff into the air high above her head and flashed her rare smile, her pride in her people undisguised and overflowing.

The rest passed before her eyes as if time stood still. She saw the arrow fly from somewhere in the heart of the crowd, and heard the sharp twang as the longbow sprung back, its tension finally released. She felt, more than heard, her own desperate warning cry that was far too late to matter. And she watched helplessly as Leval’s torso was thrust backward, carried by the force of the arrow, and as her staff dropped from her hand. She felt the grip on her own staff tighten as Leval fell from the carriage and landed, limp, at their feet. 

Later, she would come to see that it had been a horrific misunderstanding - that some poor, untrained fool had drawn his bow too far back and given in to fear when he saw an apostate mage raise her weapon above her head. But when Leval lay in front of her, blood already draining from her terribly young face and pooling at the spot where the arrow pierced her chest, there was no understanding to be found. 

Had chaos erupted, she might have found solace in that. Then, at least, she might have unleashed the rage that she felt boiling over inside of her. But instead, the crowd went deathly still and silent until Jonenn’s choked sobs felt like the only sound she had ever heard. Some remained within the alienage and some retreated from whence they’d come, and the gates were closed behind them once they left.

As they raced for the Eluvian hidden in the forest outside the city, she knew Solas held tightly to her hand though she could not feel it. The winter wind cut through the evening air, leaving her fingers as numb as the rest of her. And so she found herself, once again, fleeing from the wreckage of a place she’d called her home with nothing but bloodstained hands to remember it by.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! Here, have an update and let's never speak of my 4 month hiatus again. Thanks! <3


	15. Cost

They buried Leval in the woods. There was no ceremony to it and they couldn’t even mark her grave for fear that it would make them easier to track. The tears had not dried on Jonenn’s cheeks when they took their leave of her. It took less than ten minutes in all.

Their successful retreat from the alienage was thanks mostly to Briala’s cool head and foresight. She had planned their route carefully in advance, out of the hole Felassan blasted in the outer wall and into the densest part of the surrounding forest. They were perhaps a hundred strong, of varied ages and health, but desperation pushed them forward.

She’d seen Briala’s calm exterior falter only once, when she heard her mutter to Felassan, “Leval _had_ the crowd - I saw it,” her disbelief and shock momentarily getting the better of her. “They were going to turn in her favor.”

Once the burial was finished, she and Solas lingered toward the back of the crowd, keeping watchful eyes on the paths behind them in case they had been followed. Briala and Felassan took the front, leading the way to the underground ruin which hid the eluvian.

Solas had been silent for most of the trip, and she found she appreciated the quiet. For what was there to say? The truth of things was clear to her. There had been no riots in the alienage in Val Royeaux before. There was never an attempt to shut out the city guards, or raids on the houses of the nobility. The past had changed, and the blame lay squarely at her feet.

She found her thoughts drifting to the life Leval must have lived in the time before. The girl had survived the fall of the White Spire and found a way to return to the place that had been her home. Had she and Jonenn married? Raised children? Had they become agents of Briala’s or lived more peaceful lives? Had they lived long enough to see their grandchildren before Orlais was devoured by the Blight?

 _He said we had ‘another chance,’_ she thought, remembering Cole’s words in that black void. _What have I done with it but start a war my people cannot win?_

By the time they reached the ruin, the sky had ripped asunder, the storm that had been brewing all day finally upon them. It was a strange sight, to see a crowd of city elves slowly disappearing into the ground ahead, but everyone hurried along a little faster once the rain began to fall in icy sheets that soaked through their clothing and chilled them to the bone.

The ruin itself was small and buried almost entirely underground. A narrow stone staircase was the only entrance and, she suspected, it would be completely invisible had Felassan not used his magic to repel the undergrowth that had covered it. Once she and Solas had turned back to the city a final time, confident they had not been followed, they also descended into the ruin. A moment later, she watched with dulled interest as the ferns and bushes replaced themselves just above her head.

The space they entered was quite small, only a single chamber with a few shelves carved into the walls. The strangeness of this - of having seen dozens of people enter this room that was far too small to hold all of them - made her head swim as she looked around.  The shelves on the wall were mostly bare now, with a few shards of colorful broken glass providing the only hint as to what they might once have held.

Directly opposite from the entrance was the eluvian. Its tarnished gold frame glinted in the dim light that shone through the ferns above, while the magic at its center flowed softly like a calm lake. The city elves ahead of them stared at it with wonder, pressing their hands against the surface and pulling away quickly at the strange sensation. There had been no preparing them for this - no time to explain the mirror’s significance.

Felassan’s prominently displayed vallaslin and willingness to let the others assume he was Dalish had proved endlessly useful in this regard. She’d found that her people were as mysterious and mythical to the elves in the city as dragons were to most of Thedas. Just as Briala had believed Felassan because she had never met a Dalish elf before, so too did the city elves believe the Dalish had magic far beyond anything they could imagine. It wasn’t blind naivety, she thought as she watched an elderly woman place her hand inside the eluvian once again. It was a desire to feel connected to something older than one’s self - a desire for answers about who their people had been and what it meant for their own future. It was a desire she understood because she had felt it for most of her life, until she’d learned that, sometimes, it was better not to know.

When all the others had gone through, Solas followed first. And then, for a brief moment, she found herself alone in a chamber that had belonged to her ancestors, rain pounding against the ground above her head and the chill so sharp that she’d begun to shiver. She paused, thinking that _this_ was the time, _this_ was the place to allow herself to break if she needed to. She could sob if she wanted, or scream into her hands and curse the gods who’d never been.

But as quickly as the thought came, it passed again. She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and stepped to the eluvian, without tears to shed or curses to cry. The only way was forward, and she knew the end she must eventually face was justice enough for her crimes.

And so, after a moment to catch her breath, she stepped through.

 

* * *

 

She found Solas waiting for her, standing at the rear of the crowd that had formed on the other side of the eluvian. There was confusion and fear in the eyes of the city elves, who struggled to comprehend what they saw. As on the way from Ostwick, they were surrounded by an echo of the waking world. Trees towered above them on either side of the prominent path, but they were unlike any trees she had ever seen. They were fractured, splintered into pieces that hovered just barely apart from one another like light refracting in water. The path itself was outlined by a row of smooth stones whose surfaces bore glowing runes to light their way. Felassan began to speak and they pressed forward to hear his words.

At the front of the group, Felassan explained the Crossroads in simple, unsatisfying terms - that they were the roads used by the ancient elves to travel great distances in mere hours, that they stood now in a place _between_ the world they knew and the Fade, and that humans could not easily follow them here. Understandably, the city elves had many questions for Felassan. He answered some of their questions but to many more he would simply reply, “The Dalish do not know.”

Her blood boiled each time she heard him say this and she narrowed her eyes in barely concealed rage, even as she appreciated the poetry of it. Felassan was correct, the Dalish knew very little of the Crossroads. He told no lies and yet there was little truth to his words.

The elves from the alienage huddled together as he spoke, their eyes wide, struggling to understand. The crowd was mixed - some were the people she’d come to know over the last several weeks while others were strangers to her. But all were terrified and worried, and had so little to show for the lives they had left behind. Briala did her best to reassure them that she had control of these pathways and could leave a “door” open for others to follow them in safety, but her words were met with more disbelief than anything else.

Immediately there were disagreements as the elves discussed whether some of their number should return to Val Royeaux to guide those they had left behind and salvage what supplies might still be found. Conversation quickly evolved to bickering, accusations, and raised voices as the Jonenn’s fighters from the alienage and those who had been recruited to the Empress’ army argued over who had been at fault for the collapse of order. A small group was insistent that, if they returned to the city now, Celene would surely absolve them for what had happened and grant them clemency.

Briala scoffed at this, raising her voice above the din of the crowd as she stepped forward.  “Celene will not show mercy to elves,” she said, and the others fell silent at her words. “Your Empress values you only when you are her downtrodden but obedient subjects - a pet cause so hopeless that she can imagine herself as a heroine, a new Andraste, to deliver you from your abject misery.”

She was taken aback by Briala’s tone, by the harshness of it, as was much of the crowd if their stunned silence was any indication.

“Celene’s grace is dependent upon your _obedience_ ,” Briala continued, all but spitting out the word. “The Empress of Orlais shines upon her subjects like the bountiful sun. But do not be fooled by her radiance. The day will shift quickly to darkness when she sees you turn away from her light, or when her gaze is otherwise occupied.”

“Tyrants are fickle things,” Felassan offered quietly.

“That is our Empress you call tyrant!” objected an older man, dressed in the meager armor Celene’s soldiers had provided to its new recruits.

“Is she?” Briala demanded. “What has this Empress ever done for you but keep you trapped within the walls where you were born? If you believe she is some great benefactor of our people merely because she occasionally prevents her nobles from hunting you for sport, then you have stared at the sun for too long and returned blinded.

“Understand, I did not see this myself at first,” Briala told them. “I, too, was blinded by Celene’s light, the goodness I wanted to see in our Empress. I thought we could work with her government and her nobles to bring about change - painful, laborious change, but change nonetheless.

“But what happened today has shown me the truth. Celene will not forgive this insult. She _cannot_ \- her nobles will perceive this as a great failure for her,” Briala explained. “Her favored elves, for whom she has suffered so many political slights, have turned against her despite all she has done to further our cause. She will say you wanted too much, too soon. But we will know the truth - there is oppression and there is freedom, and there is nothing in between.”

She turned to Solas standing beside her as she listened to Briala’s words. His expression was one of interest, but not excitement, and when he glanced down at her his lips thinned to a frown.

“If you return to her,” Briala continued, “she will only make an example of you. And the best help you can provide to those we left behind today is to promise yourselves that we will return for them. We cannot rest until every elf in Orlais is free.”

“And why stop there?” Felassan murmured.

“Don’t think to tell me who and where I will fight, woman,” came a shout from the the middle of the crowd. “We know of you and your loyalty to the crown! You sat warm and happy in the Imperial Palace while me and my family slept without blankets or firewood because they’d been stolen from us by _shemlen_.”

Briala’s usually confident expression and posture visibly crumbled at the words, as if the wind had suddenly been knocked from her lungs. But Felassan narrowed his eyes dangerously and took a menacing step toward the man in the crowd.

“ _Dalen_ ,” Felassan growled through clenched teeth, “This woman has done more to further your freedom than you will ever know.”

Uncomfortable mutters filled the air but were quickly silenced when Jonenn made his way to the front of the group. The city elves parted deferentially to him, and she didn’t know whether it was because they recognized him as a leader or because they had all witnessed his loss firsthand. Though he was small and young, and streaks of tears still stained his cheeks, everyone listened when he spoke.

“I won’t hear anything else about who belongs with us and who doesn’t,” Jonenn said quietly. “Leval died trying to show you that it doesn’t matter, and we’ve all heard the stories of how Briala helped our people in Halamshiral. _None_ of us is welcome in Orlais, not unless we agree to be less than who we are.

“The Chant, it - it tells us, ‘Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,’” Jonenn continued slowly, choosing his words carefully. “But even if you don’t believe in the Maker or Andraste’s teachings, it’s obvious what we need to do.”

He turned to Briala. “I agree that we must free the others. But,” Jonenn shook his head in obvious frustration. “How?”

Briala opened her mouth to speak, but it was Solas who answered.

“Use these pathways to _relieve_ Celene and the rest of the nobility of their servants,” he said. From the smirk she saw pass across Felassan’s face, she suspected this was not the first time he had heard Solas propose such a plan.

“Yes,” Briala agreed with a smile. “Precisely. You might be surprised to see how quickly an empire can fall into chaos when its nobles have to wash and feed themselves.”

“You have begun this process today,” Solas said. “Now, you must find shelter and give the Empress and her army a chance to grow complacent once again. It may be difficult to wait to act, but in so doing you will gain the element of surprise when you strike again.”

“And where will we go in the meantime?” asked a young girl in the crowd - one of Jonenn’s raiding group. “These roads - where will they take us?”

She moved to step forward to explain but stopped when she felt Solas’ hand on her arm. He shook his head slowly and lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Let him,” Solas said, his eyes momentarily focusing on Jonenn before returning to hers. “Jonenn is one of their own, a figure they already know and trust. The boy has much potential - he can become the leader for whom they’re searching, but their faith in him needs room to grow.”

And suddenly, as Solas spoke, she was transported to a cold, clear night high on a mountain top when he had said those same words to her - _about_ her. The humans’ faith in her was shaping the moment, he had said then.

“Allow him to be their guide, as you once were ours,” Solas said with a kind smile.

“As _you_ guided _me_ ,” she corrected him in a whisper, and his smile faded.

Jonenn answered the girl as he pointed off in the distance, down the tree-lined path. “The place we are going now is far from the home we know. It is a fortress and a safe place we can call our own and where we can be free to live as we please.”

She inhaled quickly, surprised to hear her own words - words she’d spoken to Leval, not Jonenn - coming out of the young man’s mouth. Perhaps Leval’s appeals had been more convincing than the girl thought, she realized as her stomach wrenched.

Solas, still holding her arm, pulled her gently away from Jonenn and Briala, and she let herself go with him. She stared up at the gorgeous, fractured trees above, their needled branches glowing in the soft golden light from the runes below. It was so beautiful - so unspeakably calm and radiant. And it was yet another tragedy that Leval would never see this place.

As they came to a stop near the rippling Eluvian, she felt Solas’ hand drop from her elbow to her fingertips. He entwined his fingers with hers as she turned to look at him.

“Do not lose sight of what you have accomplished today,” he told her, eyes narrowed in worry.

She shook her head, pulling her hand away from his. “And what did _I_ accomplish? I got an innocent young woman killed,” she said, taking a step away from him. “Whatever good came from today happened in spite of my actions.”

Solas followed her as he replied, “I did not see you wield the bow that killed Leval. Nor did I hear you give the order to attack the alienage.”

“Do not make exceptions for me!” she snapped back at him louder than she’d intended, garnering a few confused stares from some of the others in the crowd. She lowered her voice again as she continued. “I don’t need you to find loopholes in logic to ease my conscience.

“Whatever happens in this world is my fault, and no one else’s. I brought us here, and by doing so I have changed -” she hesitated, knowing precisely what to say and yet feeling ridiculous for wanting to speak the word aloud.

“Everything,” Solas finished for her.

“Yes,” she said, gritting her teeth to hold back the tears that wanted to come. “The blame for every death rests squarely at my feet. And I will _not_ -” she hurried on, seeing him shake his head to interject. “I will _not_ forget that.”

“You have lost people under your command before,” Solas reminded her. “You are not unfamiliar with the cost of such things.”

“When I lost _soldiers_ before,” she replied, “they were adults who had volunteered knowingly for the cause - a cause which, need I remind you, was not something I chose for myself but something that was thrust upon me thanks to some very unlucky timing.”

But Solas merely shook his head again, frowning. “Still, you are being too harsh on yourself.”

She felt the blood rush to her face and, infuriatingly, the warm tears finally spill down her cheeks as she stared at him indignantly. “How dare you say that to me?” she spat back at him.

Her fists clenched and her chin tipped upward as she stared up into his eyes, her fury at the day’s events suddenly coalescing and focusing upon a single target. She expected his quiet resolve would collapse under the weight of her anger, and that he would turn away as he had when she had lashed out at him before.

But Solas did not look away. His eyes were narrowed slightly, and she saw him purse his lips as he considered his words carefully.

“I say this to you as, perhaps, the only person who can -” Solas began before she cut him off.

“You have no right to tell me when my guilt and my grief are too much!” she said, her hands trembling as she concentrated everything on keeping her voice from breaking. “You carry your guilt around like it’s your dearest friend - as if you don’t even know who you are without it and you don’t want to find out. Have you ever considered what the guilt you insist upon carrying does to the people around you? Did you ever consider what it did to _me_?”

Solas tipped his head slightly to the side, his expression surprisingly neutral. “I did not wish for you to carry that burden as well. I left in the hopes of preventing it.”

“Oh well _thank you_ for that,” she replied in a furious half-whisper. His calm expression only spurred her anger on; she wished to see the anger or despair unmistakable on his face the way she knew it must be on hers.

“Thank you for leaving me alone with a mandate to save you from your own foolishness. And thank you for slowly, agonizingly stripping me of every companion I had who might have been able to help me - including yourself!”

Yet even as she berated him she hated herself for doing so. She knew with absolute certainty that nothing she could say to him would be any worse than what he’d already thought of himself. Every word she said was a strike against her argument that _his_ guilt was excessive and he’d punished himself for far too long. And with the flood of conflicting logic swimming through her mind, a new thought forced its way forward, its tendrils spreading through every corner until she found herself unable to think of anything else at all.

 _My guilt is feeding his,_ her mind insisted. _And his guilt feeds mine. We will wallow here as we wallowed in our old world. In the end, nothing will change. He will make his choice and I will make mine, and we will each be alone in the end._

She winced in pain and fear as her chest tightened and she imagined she could feel the stinging, sudden agony of the mark in her hand once again - a hand which she was suddenly acutely aware should not be there. Though she knew it was only a memory, the sensation was as clear and insistent as it had been long ago, a dull ache that first spread from her palm to her fingertips, coiling through her skin until her nerves felt as if they’d been set aflame. She barely stopped herself from crying out, managing a loud gasp instead.

Solas moved as if to take a step toward her but she held up her throbbing hand to stop him and ran the other through her hair, tugging violently at the roots and hoping that this intentional pain would anchor her somehow. It felt like she was coming apart at the seams, and the last thing she wanted was for him to see it and accuse her of overreacting.

“Of course I don’t want to … feel this, but I have to hold on … to the guilt,” she managed to choke out between pained breaths. “If I don’t, I won’t remember what’s at stake. I won’t remember Leval.”

Solas was quiet for a moment as she stared down at her feet. She took in several slow, deep gulps of air and then exhaled them slowly. After a moment, he spoke in a quiet and even tone.

“You may be tempted to let yourself swear that this will never happen again,” Solas told her. “But it will happen again, and perhaps many times. People who do not deserve to be hurt will be hurt, and people who do not deserve to die will die.

“Therefore, you may find it best to decide here and now whether you will take each of the coming deaths upon your own shoulders and hold them in your own heart, so as to steel yourself for precisely how much heartache you will need to endure. There is no sense in hiding or denying this pain. You must accept the blood to make things better. That is the hardest part.

“But so much pain is far too great for anyone to withstand for long. And so, instead of feeling each loss individually and carrying them with you, you must steel your heart. Allow the sharpness of the pain to become an ache - just as painful, but sustained. In exchange, feel only this. Feel only the ache of sorrow for all those who have been lost and will be lost. Feel nothing else. Your capacity to _feel_ pain, despair, anger-” Solas paused. Her gaze was still trained on his feet, and she saw him shift his weight from one to the other. “Even love,” he finally finished. “These are the cost you must pay to keep your mind focused on what you can do for those who still live.

“You will pray that a time will never come when you find this cost is too great.”

Still concentrating on her breathing, she looked up at him, surprised by the stark honesty of his words and the calm acceptance in his voice. It was Solas now who did not meet her gaze, looking instead at something far off in the distance, beyond the splintered trees and into the misty edges of the horizon.

“You may also be tempted to shut yourself away from those around you, either out of a misguided idea that you are protecting them or because you feel it is only fair for you to suffer alone. But I must urge you not to succumb to this temptation. Remember what has been lost. Beyond that, guilt is a distraction. One we can ill afford,” he said.

She let out a puff of breath at this - the faintest hint of a laugh. “And this advice of yours - would you have taken it if you had heard it all those years ago?”

“No,” Solas quickly admitted. “I shut myself away for precisely the reasons I described. But surely, “ he smiled as he turned back to her, “you would not look to my behavior as a model.”

“Of course not,” she chuckled. “And _you_ tell _me_ I’m being too harsh on myself.” She returned the smile, but his face had changed again, eyes somber and grey in the Crossroads’ strange light.  

“I could not have -” he began, then paused and started again. “While I insisted upon isolation for myself, I was able to shoulder the sorrow I felt for many, many years. I was able to close my heart and to feel only what I must in order to help my people. It was not so difficult a thing to keep myself at a distance when I merely observed from the Fade. I could force myself to imagine that all of it - the people who would lose their lives and the destruction I would cause - was an abstraction. But, eventually, I found it impossible to maintain that delusion. And, in the end, I ran because I found a cost that was too great.

“Please,” Solas said, his tone entreating. “My life and my happiness were forfeit long ago. I did not want to see the same happen to you then, and I would not see it happen to you now.”

How was it possible that after all this years he still couldn’t understand that his life and his happiness were irrevocably bound to her own, that the two were thoroughly inseparable, hopelessly entwined? Was he really unable to see what his happiness meant to her? Or did he shy away from it intentionally because the knowledge was too painful to bear?

As she did.

“I appreciate your advice,” she replied, rubbing the knuckles of her good hand into her left palm. The pain had faded to a dull ache, as it always used to. “Though I imagine I won’t be able to follow most of it.”

Solas nodded slowly. “I understand,” he said simply.

As if in unspoken agreement, he afforded her another minute to compose herself before they returned to the rest of the crowd. Already Jonenn was leading the way forward, his footsteps and those of the other refugees echoing softly on the stone path.

 

* * *

 

They walked for days, the group spreading out as some took time to rest while others continued on. Sometimes the pathways would lead to other mirrors, which forced them into small rooms filled with strange instruments and crumbling ancient linens. One mirror led to the next and the next, and eventually the forest that echoed the waking world gave way to rolling hills crested with snow. She saw the children in the group stare up at the flurries that hovered in the air, moving more slowly than they should and dancing about in unnatural patterns, and she wondered at the strange sensibilities of her ancestors to build such a place as this.

By the same magic that fashioned the snowflakes, the slope of their path rarely changed, even when the hills gave way to mountain ranges. The peaks rose up around them, white and shining in the sun. The snow caps sparkled too brightly, like newly polished silver that caught the light so easily. She heard the others marvel that it was like walking through a sea of crystals, and she could not disagree.

Jonenn continued to lead the group forward, with Briala and Felassan close at hand. Once, she saw Solas venture forward and attempt to speak to Jonenn, to offer his condolences for Leval’s death. Jonenn had been as quiet as ever since they’d left the city, speaking only when he needed to convey an order to the crowd. Yet Felassan quickly waved Solas off as he approached their young leader, and she overheard Felassan’s condescending dismissal.

“Go back to your plotting, old friend,” Felassan said with a sneer that seemed less than friendly. “I am far better suited to the task of comforting the grief-stricken than you, don’t you think?”

She was surprised to see that Solas did not respond with the usual annoyance he reserved for Felassan. Instead, Solas seemed to take the insult - or whatever precisely it was - in stride. His face fell somewhat and a blush reddened his cheeks, but he walked away from Felassan and Jonenn without another word.

She was becoming increasingly wary of Solas’ “old friend.” While Felassan had clearly been concerned with the rebellion and Briala’s interests, she worried whether she might have divulged too much in their little game of questions. His friendship with Solas appeared to be sporadically trusting and then antagonistic. And, even if she could pin down exactly how the two men felt about one another, she wasn’t certain it would do her much good. Did it matter whether Solas trusted Felassan when she wasn’t entirely confident she trusted Solas?

Their snowy surroundings had her thinking back to that conversation on the mountaintop again, the night the humans of the Inquisition had insisted that they’d seen her die and return to life. That night, she thought, was the first time she’d thought there was something _off_ about the knowledgeable apostate who’d offered his services to the human cause. At the time, of course, she’d had no idea what it was that made her uneasy as she spoke to him, merely a feeling in her gut that told her he was holding back.

Solas knew too much, far too much, she remembered thinking at the time. Either he was a charlatan - but no, that didn’t make sense. Too much of the counsel he’d provided had been sound advice. And that left - what? There would have been no way for her to guess the truth at the time, and she’d forgiven herself long ago in that regard. But she’d known, instinctively, that something was wrong. And that knowledge was especially worrisome since she’d already felt her heart stirring for him.

“You seem quite lost in thought.”

She jumped slightly at the sound of Solas’ voice. He’d returned to her side after being rebuked by Felassan and, as he’d noticed, she was too lost in her thoughts to realize it. She quickly replied with a half-truth.

“I was thinking that we must be close to Haven now. And, that it would be nice to see it again - alive and well.”

Solas cocked his head at her as he replied. “I am surprised that you would wish to see it again.”

“Why is that?”

“Well,” Solas said, considering. “I had assumed that your time there was not especially pleasant. You always appeared somewhat disturbed - and understandably so - by the responsibilities being thrust upon you, though you certainly handled them with skill and grace.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” she laughed, and hurried on before Solas could protest. “Though I suppose you’re right that was not an overly happy place for me. But Haven was -”

She stopped, trying to find the right word to articulate it, but nothing quite fit.

“Haven was -?” Solas asked gently.

“It will sound silly,” she told him.

“I doubt that very much,” he replied.

“It’s just that - from the moment I left my clan, I felt like I never stopped running. At Skyhold we would rest for a day or two before setting out again. And even later - _after_ ,” she said, not wanting to break the friendliness of their current conversation by specifying after _what_. “Varric gave me a manor in Kirkwall and I hardly spent any time there.

“Even now,” she said. “When I found myself among my people again, there was never a question in my mind as to whether I would stay. I knew it was only a matter of time before I would be running again. And the alienage - I suppose it was foolish to think it could be a home for longer than a few weeks.

“But Haven - Haven was before I knew what was coming. I was scared, yes, and surrounded by strangers. But there were moments when I thought maybe, just maybe, it could become a home for me. I would look out over that frozen lake, and see the green reflection of the Breach, and I’d fool myself into thinking that it would all be over soon and I could rest.”

Solas listened quietly at her side, arms folded behind his back.

“But then we ran from Haven,” she said. “And I’ve never stopped running. It’s exhausting, Solas, as I’m sure I don’t need to remind you.”

He hummed a bit at that but did not speak.

“Soon, I will run from Skyhold too,” she continued.

“And why would we run?” Solas asked, confusion evident in his tone.

“Because sometimes I ran away from battles, but more often I ran toward them,” she said. “And our battle will not be fought at Skyhold.”

“Of what battle do you speak?” he asked, peering down at her and having entirely lost her meaning.

“We need your orb, Solas. And it’s not here,” she said pointedly. She stopping walking and turned to him so she could see his face completely, in order to gauge his reaction to her next words.

“The focus is in Solassan.”

She watched his eyes widen in shock and disbelief, and saw him search her face in return. “That … cannot be,” he said slowly.

“Why would you say so?” she asked.

“The orb laid with me as I slept. I would not have parted with it for the world. And,” he said, his brow furrowed in thought, “I had never heard of nor set foot in that temple until the day I entered it with you.”

She believed him, against her better judgment.

“Felassan said that is where the orb was, at least until he made the Venatori aware of its location. It’s possible that they have already found and removed it,” she explained.

Solas looked ahead of them to where Felassan walked at the front of the group, side by side with Briala and Jonenn. “Did he say why it was there?”

“So that you wouldn’t be able to use it against your people again,” she answered quietly.

Solas breathed in deeply, then let out a long sigh. “Then it was stolen from me as I slept. And how fortunate for those who stole it that I asked for it to be removed from my presence before I awoke.”  

“Did Felassan take it from you?” she asked, finally voicing a question that had been on her mind since Solas’ old friend had first told her the orb’s location. But Solas shook his head.

“I cannot know,” he said. “When one is in uthenera, one does not experience the physical sensations to which the body is subjected. The bodies of those who slumbered were guarded to ensure their safety as they slept. Though our minds were freer than ever possible when awake, our physical forms were at their most vulnerable.

“Felassan was one of very few people who knew where I slept after the creation of the Veil,” Solas continued. “I should not like to think he was capable of such a betrayal.”

“But … ?” she asked, sensing that there was more.

“But,” Solas said with a nod toward her. “It was a dark time. Chaos reigned and fear gripped the hearts of those who remained. It was a time that tested the loyalty of many.”

“I don’t understand, Solas,” she said. “If someone else had the focus, why wouldn’t they have used it to undo what you had done? Why didn’t they simply take down the Veil?”

He didn’t respond for a long while, long enough that she thought perhaps he wouldn’t answer. But finally, he began to speak again.

“A good question with a complex answer,” Solas said. “The simplest explanation is that they could not have removed the Veil immediately after its creation because the orb lacked the necessary power to do so. While the Titans’ hearts renewed the magic contained with the orbs, a spell the like of which I used to create the Veil was exceptionally powerful. In truth, I was not certain the heart inside my orb would survive the task. Now, I know that it did. But it took many years for it to replenish the magic that I used on that day.

“Yet, even if someone had waited until the heart regained its strength and the orb was once again at its full potential, they would not have been able to use it.”

Solas reached down, taking her left hand in his both of his. His large hands fully surrounded hers, and she felt the soothing, unmistakable warmth of a spell seeping into her aching muscles and easing the hurt she’d felt before.

“I have wanted to explain to you for some time about the anchor,” he said.

She felt her stomach tighten at this, and resisted the urge to pull her hand away. “I thought you already had,” she said.

“There is still more,” Solas admitted.

She let out a slow breath, watching it rise up toward the dancing snowflakes. “Very well,” she said with a calmness she did not feel.

“I told you the orbs - the foci - each belonged to one of us,” Solas began, keeping his voice low enough that only she would hear him.

“Yes,” she replied.

“They were wholly unique magic in all of Elvehnan, and the secret of their creation was a carefully guarded one, for obvious reasons. We forged the orbs ourselves - a long process of spellwork that would ensure the preservation of what would be contained within. As such, we put much of ourselves into the foci. That much was intentional. It meant that none could wield the orb, save its creator. What we did not understand was that the way the foci would be changed once they had been filled.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Filled by the Titans’ hearts, you mean.”

“Yes,” Solas agreed. “We did not foresee - though perhaps we should have - that the relationship between the focus and its bearer would be symbiotic in nature.”

“What - what do you mean by that?” she asked hesitantly.

“The orbs were more than a source of power. They were living organisms whose existence had been inseparably bound to our own.”

She stared at him in shock. “They were Titans’ hearts that you ripped from their dying chests, if I’ve understood what you told me before correctly,” she said. “But it sounds like you’re telling me it was worse than that.”

“Worse …” Solas replied slowly. “Yes, it was worse in many ways, though perhaps not for the reasons you think. You presume that a Titan’s body is composed similarly to yours or mine. We did the same at first. But, after the first few orbs were forged, we began to realize our error.

“The Titans were entirely alien to us. We did not understand how they communicated among themselves, let alone how they might communicate with us. It was only once we began to entrap their essences in the foci that we had any notion of how they spoke.”

“A detail that perhaps you should have worked out before you started killing them,” she coolly replied.

“Do you wish me to defend my actions? The actions of my people?” His tone was not sarcastic - he was genuinely asking her. When she didn’t respond, Solas continued. “I am only too aware that there is no defense for what we did - what we chose to do. No amount of remorse will undo what has been done.”

“What has been done?” she asked.

Solas considered this. “It is very difficult to describe. I often wondered if perhaps you might have had some sense of it yourself, when you wielded the anchor.”

“A sense of - what, precisely?” She watched him weigh his words, struggling to find the ones that would make her understand.

“At first I thought I was imagining it,” Solas said. “The others rarely spoke of it, at least until the very end. But for me, it began as a general feeling of unease. A sense that I was being watched or that I was not alone. But this was not such an unusual feeling for me then. Spies were everywhere. Intrigue was commonplace. Such was the nature of things in Elvhenan,” he said with a bemused smile.

“But after some time,” he continued, “I began to see - or to hear - it more clearly.”

“You’re saying the orb _spoke_ to you?” she asked, frowning at him in disbelief.

“No,” Solas shook his head. “It _sang_ \- though perhaps even that isn’t the correct description. Either seems to convey words where there were none. But it was certainly music and unlike any I had ever heard. Dissonant, I thought at first. But that was only before I learned to hear its harmony.”

“What was it? What did it mean?”

“I still do not know,” he answered. “There were moments when I could feel despair and loss in the song, and moments when I felt as if it was driving me forward - toward something. But, alas, we never found a language we could both speak.”

“ _We_?” she asked. “You’re saying that it was the titan’s-”

“Spirit, yes,” Solas finished for her. “Or consciousness, if you prefer. However you choose to describe it, a part of the titans’ understanding lived on inside the foci. And because the foci were created by and bound to us, that part of the titans became a part of us as well.”

“Solas, I-” she began, uncertain how to respond or where to start. “I’m not sure I can understand. What you’re describing - it sounds almost like possession.”

“You did not feel it yourself, then?” he asked. “You heard nothing like this when you had the anchor?”

She thought back to the moments when the anchor had sputtered violently to life, rending her hand with a force she’d never understood. It had been difficult - impossible at times - to keep her mind focused on the task at hand. She’d been frightened, pained, confused. But had she ever heard or felt something beyond that? Something outside of herself?

“I don’t know,” she finally said. “I’m not certain.”

“Of course,” Solas nodded, his tone sympathetic but his expression one of disappointment. “Your experience with the anchor was very different from mine with the orb. Perhaps the titan’s song manifested as something else for you, or perhaps not at all.”

“But Solas,” she replied, struggling to find the words to form a troubling thought that wouldn’t stop orbiting her mind. “I don’t understand. You said the orbs were bound to their creators, that no one else could wield them.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Then how did Corypheous -? And how did I -?”

“Corypheous found an exception,” Solas explained. “It seems that blood magic can be used to exert control over the orbs. We are fortunate that blood magic was not known during my people’s time, or the power-hungry and the desperate would certainly have performed as many sacrifices as the ancient Tevinters.

“But the use of blood magic proved to be unreliable and unpredictable for Corypehous’ connection to the orb. There were times when I could sense his control waning, typically when his desires were diametrically opposed to my own. The orb simply would not obey him.”

“I saw that happen,” she blurted out, the memory suddenly making sense in a way it never had before. “The last night in Haven, when he attacked. He tried to take the anchor from me. But the orb, it - it wouldn’t.

“I remember the feel of it. At first I was in so much pain, it felt like he was tearing the bones from my hand,” she winced, remembering. “But then it stopped, just as suddenly. And I was filled with a sense of - what was it? Calm, or clarity? I knew, even before Corypheous said so, that he would never be able to rip the anchor away.”

“Yes,” Solas said with a nod.

“Then the anchor,” she said with a glance down at her hand. “It was possible because of the blood magic, too? Because I touched the orb during Corypheous’ spell?”

“Perhaps,” he agreed. “I certainly thought so for a time.”

“What other explanation is there?” she asked.

The snow cascaded down around them, swirling in pretty displays though never touching them before it fell to the ground, dissolving instantly. The stone pathway was still entirely clear, despite the blizzard that surrounded them. There was something about their lazy, yet choreographed pattern that made her remember the petals Solas had conjured in the Fade.

Solas waved a finger toward the snowflakes, stirring them upward for a brief moment before they returned to their pattern. “What I tell you next,” he said, “is merely conjecture. A product of legends and stories and gossip, all of which cannot be said to paint a clear picture of the truth.”

“Alright,” she said, as confused as ever. “I understand.”

With a nod, Solas continued. “As I recall, the Dalish believe that Falon’Din and Dirthamen were brothers?”

“Yes. Twin sons of Mythal and Elgar’nan.”

“This is a misunderstanding,” Solas frowned. “A misinterpretation of a concept that perhaps does not translate well from Elvish, if it can be translated at all.”

“Not literal twins, but ‘twin souls,’” she said. “I remember reading that theory in one of the books the Inquisition borrowed from Orlais.”

Solas nodded. “An interesting attempt to describe an idea that we ourselves did not fully comprehend.”

“But what does that have to do with -?” _Us_ was the word she did not utter, suddenly aware of the possible implications. He didn’t answer her, or at least not directly.

“Falon’Din was often cruel. His vanity and lust for worship were the cause of many battles among my people. He had only one friend - Dirthamen. The two were inseparable. I would tell you that Falon’Din was incapable of love, but it was clear that he loved Dirthamen - perhaps even more than he loved himself.

“Eventually, Falon’Din’s violence became so untenable that Mythal had to intervene. She fought him in his own temple and, with her power and that of her forces, she dealt him a mortal blow.

“But, of course, Falon’Din’s followers wore the vallaslin. And so he sacrificed them to keep himself alive. He sacrificed _all_ of them,” Solas said through clenched teeth. “Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people. And he survived, though just barely.

“Falon’Din slipped into unconsciousness and could not be woken, and Dirthamen was convinced that he had entered unethera. Dirthamen slept, searched the Fade, and finally found Falon’Din. I do not know what transpired between them there, only what happened when Dirthamen returned.”

It was difficult to hear, as always. The truth was so close to what her people had told themselves for generations, and yet vitally flawed in the details.

“What happened?” she asked.

“When Dirthamen returned, he informed the Evanuris that he was Falon’Din’s chosen successor. Falon’Din, though alive, would never be able to return from the Fade. Dirthamen would take his place in the waking world while Falon’Din wandered there.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “And the Evanuris believed this?”

“Of course not,” Solas said, shaking his head. “Nor would they have allowed it, even if Falon’Din had told them himself. But then Dirthamen showed them Falon’Din’s focus. He claimed that Falon’Din told him to take the focus and claim it as his own. And, inexplicably, Dirthamen was able to command the orb that Falon’Din had forged.”

“How is that possible?” she asked.

“I do not know. Nor did any of the Evanuris. It was an occurrence never duplicated. The orbs were few, belonging to only eight of the People in total - nine if you include Dirthamen as well. It is impossible to say how rarely it might occur that one could use an orb forged by another.”

“But,” she said, knowing the answer to her question before she asked it. “You have a theory?”

Solas chuckled in reply. “I do, yes.

“Dirthamen and Falon’Din were connected in a way that cannot be described by blood relation nor by romantic ties. There were other Evanuris who were kin, or those who were romantic partners, and they could not share a focus in this way.

“I suspect that what made Dirthamen and Falon’Din ‘twin souls’ was not a question of how they related to one another, but rather how they related to the world. I have heard them described by your people as reflections or shadows of each other, and I believe that is as close as we may come to the truth of the matter. While they were dissimilar in many ways, there must have been something fundamental about each of their spirits that allowed them to know one another as deeply as they did.”

She realized she was holding her breath a little longer than usual, bracing herself. She swallowed hard, trying to listen without jumping ahead to the next step in Solas’ logic.

“Perhaps it is still simpler than that,” he said. “If it is true that, in forging an orb, we began to harmonize with the song of the Titan inside, perhaps Falon’Din and Dirthamen also shared a harmony with one another.”

She thought back to the rudimentary music lessons her Keeper had given her as a child. “Like a chord,” she muttered, nearly under her breath.

“Like … a chord,” Solas repeated just as quietly. “Yes,” he said, his voice rising with excitement. “Yes. Two distinct notes each of which harmonize with a third.”

“But, Solas.” She turned toward him and saw dawning comprehension on his face. “That doesn’t explain how or why any of this is possible. And it doesn’t necessarily mean that you and I -” She hesitated as he looked down at her. “Doesn’t it make more sense that I was able to use the orb because of what Corypheous had already done to it?”

“It would be easier to explain,” Solas conceded. “But how, then, did you continue to use the anchor, and why did it remain with you, even after the corrupted orb was destroyed?”

“‘Corrupted?’” she asked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean corrupted, stolen, tainted.” Solas said irritably, though she understood his anger was not directed at her question. “There came a time, once Corypheous had twisted the orb to do his bidding for several months, that it no longer obeyed me at all. Whatever bond I had shared with it was broken, perhaps permanently.” He exhaled sharply before he continued. “To use the language we used before, Corypheous changed the music of the orb, forcing it to harmonize with his own.”

“But the anchor - it was never corrupted,” she said, uncertain whether she was telling Solas this or asking him.

They had entered one of the chambers now, quickly passing through yet another eluvian as they spoke. The room was perhaps the smallest they had seen thus far, bearing a single platform that was covered with yellowing linens and a lonely glass jar. Solas halted, leaning back against the platform and she followed him, eager for the moment’s respite.

“What were these rooms?” she asked, noticing that the small jar smelled faintly of honey.

“Resting places for those in unethera,” Solas replied. He sounded tired. They’d had little sleep since the final day in the alienage.

“I - I want to be clear about this,” he said as he looked at her. “I want to tell you - that is, I want you to know that I am not telling you about the anchor and about Falon’Din and Dirthamen in order to -”

She turned to him when she realized he wasn’t able to continue, that he seemed to be at a loss for words. “In order to manipulate me?” she asked. Her tone was blunt, but not unkind.

“In order to manipulate you,” he agreed with a nod. “I do not wish, nor have I ever wished, to twist your … emotions, or to -” He stopped again.

“Solas. I understand,” she said, and placed her hand over his where it rested on the edge of the stone platform. Solas nodded, his relief clear.

And the pain of it was that she _did_ understand. For all his faults, and for all the malice she’d imagined in him over the years, she believed that he had spoken the truth to her when he left Skyhold.

What they had was real.

“Then, what is your intent?” she asked him delicately.

He turned his hand over, gripping hers as he began to speak. “I believe you will be able to control the orb if I am unable to do so.”

“Why should that happen?” she asked, and Solas sighed.

“It is only a precaution. I would hope that you will never need to carry that burden yourself. But, should something happen to me -”

“I will not allow anything to happen to you,” she interrupted. “That is a cost I cannot bear.”

He stared at her, brow knit in confusion and eyes wide with wonder. “Still you offer me your protection, after all that I have done.” He shook his head. “Why?”

 _Because I love you_ , she thought but did not say. And, after a moment, Solas filled the silence that hung between them, his voice tentative and careful.

“I regret … many things,” he said. “And I know that I put too much on you. I thought I was right to push you away because you are better than me. You are stronger and braver than I ever hoped to be. I know it could not have been easy, and that there must have been times when you felt neither strong nor brave. Yet through it all, you remained true to yourself and to your ideals. You assumed the mantle of power with intelligence and discretion, and you doffed it just as gracefully.

“When one is lucky enough to find a torch burning brightly amid the deepest night, the flame illuminates him as well. He glows in its fire, enlightened simply by proximity. So it was for me when I was near you. I imagined for myself the sort of person I might have been were I better, stronger, and braver. I was wrong to turn away from that. To turn away from you.”

Now she found herself at a loss for words, her heart having jumped to her throat. She couldn’t agree with so much of what he’d said - how could Leval’s death be reconciled with whatever ideals she had left? She didn’t feel braver, or stronger, or _better_ \- whatever that meant.

And yet.

And yet, how comforting it was to hear. How much it warmed her tired soul to know it.

How much braver, stronger, better did it make her believe she _could_ be.

“Come,” Solas said, squeezing her hand lightly before he released it and pushed himself away from the platform. “We are nearly there.”

They passed through the eluvian at the far side of the room and emerged on a mountaintop in the harsh light of day.

 

* * *

 

“Was this here all along?” she asked Solas, realizing just how close they were to Skyhold now.

“No,” he said. “When Felassan refused to give me the password for the eluvians, I sealed this one so that Briala and her agents would not stumble upon this place.”

Jonenn reached the peak of the hill first, paces ahead of all of them. She saw him freeze, rigid in the knee-deep snow as he peered toward the horizon. Felassan and Briala were next, with several others close on their heels. She heard Briala’s gasp as she saw the fortress, while Felassan merely leaned against his staff with a look of mild interest upon his smug face.

Then, she watched as an elderly woman fell to her knees, sinking into the snow, and raised her hands up toward the heavens as if in supplication. “Creators,” she heard the old woman cry out toward the sky. “Thank you for this blessing!”

She glanced at Solas quickly. He shook his head and raised an eyebrow, but didn’t seem quite as irritated as she feared he might be. And as she looked back toward the figures at the top of the hill, Skyhold came into her view.

Suddenly, she felt like falling to her knees as well.

There, nestled among the frozen valley, was a castle she had never seen before.  The walls were beautiful, aging stone that reached toward the sky, each topped with a series of arch-shaped parapets. The stonework was intricate, impossibly winding and delicate, with carved patterns that climbed like vines upon the corners of each wall. Glints of green and gold flashed in the midday sun, hints of the ornate mosaics that must adorn the walls in the courtyard.

It was utterly unlike the Skyhold that she remembered. But it was entirely Elvhen.

“What is this place?” she heard herself ask breathlessly.

“ _Tarasyl'an Te'las_ ,” Solas answered as he came to a stop beside her. “Skyhold.”

“That’s not possible,” she whispered.

“I assure you it is,” he said, a smile lighting up his face. “I had wondered how it might appear.”

“You’re going to need to explain,” she said, grabbing his arm for stability as she lifted one foot out of the snow and took a step forward. All around them, adults were lifting young children out of the snow to carry them the short distance toward the castle, while others offered their elbows to the elderly in the crowd.

“Skyhold has a deep connection to the Fade where, as we have discussed, expectation is tantamount to reality,” Solas said, helping her pick her way forward. “It was a complex spell, to be certain. But I was fortunate to have my focus as well as enormous quantities of lyruim in the mountain below us when I created this place.”

“A spell?” she asked.

“Indeed,” he answered with a nod. “Skyhold has a few foundational features - the battlements and the rotunda, for example. But the aesthetic is not fixed. It shapes itself according to the expectations of those who see it. Once it has chosen a shape - or, more accurately, a shape has been chosen for it - Skyhold will maintain that shape until it is abandoned once again. Consider it magical camouflage,” Solas said with a smirk. “When a group of predominantly Fereldan soldiers approached it in Fereldan mountains, they expected to find a structure not unlike what they might see in their own towns. When a group of city elves led by a mysterious ‘Dalish’ figure find Skyhold, they expect it to be Elven.

“I suppose if someone ever expected Skyhold to be furnished with regal trappings and comfortable furniture, they would find it precisely so. But sadly, people always imagine a ruin, and so that is what they get.”

Solas smiled that crooked half-smile that pulled at the corner of his lip and spread to the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

And in that moment she remembered who he was. She saw in his face the cleverness and the pride that had fascinated her from the moment she’d met him so many years ago. She wondered at a mind that could imagine a place like this, the understanding of empathy needed to craft a spell of its kind, and the imagination to push the limits of the possible.

She reached up to him before she could think better of it, her hand upon his warm cheek as the snow fell down upon them. He froze beneath her touch and so she found herself on her toes to reach him, as she pressed her lips softly against the corner of his mouth. Still he didn’t move, except that his hands clasped around her waist suddenly, fingers pressing into the small of her back. But just as quickly she felt him ease his grip, as if his reaction had been impulsive and he must now retreat.

It was then she realized her error.

The slight movement of his hands, combined with her precarious balance on her toes in a snowbank that reached to her knees required more coordination than she had left after days with little sleep. She was falling backwards before she realized it, with only a moment to react to the hand that Solas extended to her.

She caught him by the wrist, and saw a similar realization dawn upon his face just before she landed ass-first in the snow. She felt, more than saw, him crash down beside her, having managed to miss falling on top of her only by landing face-first.

“If I were a superstitious woman,” she grumbled as she drew herself up to a sitting position, her legs all but invisible beneath the snow, “I might think that this is a bit of a bad omen.” She turned to him even as she felt the smile growing across her face, only to see Solas emerge from the snowbank beside her, his face flushed a deep red - whether from the cold or otherwise, she couldn’t say. He propped himself up with one arm, rubbing his other hand along the back of his head. The tip of his nose was still covered in snow.

She felt the laugh bubble out of her, shepherding to the surface the fear and tension and grief that she’d carried and expelling it into the frigid mountain air. It felt joyous - _she_ felt joyous for the first time in so very, very long.

She laughed and laughed, and tried to catch her breath as Solas swatted the snow from his face. Then he sighed, his breath rising into the thick snowflakes that rained down upon them, and he leaned toward her.

“I would risk _any_ ill omen for another chance at that,” Solas said, the same small smile returning to his reddened face.

She chuckled, feeling a blush spread to her own cheeks as she leaned into him as well. “Then,” she said with a grin. “Maybe you should kiss me, you old fool.”

She watched him shake his head, as if in disbelief, and for a moment she wondered if he might not. But then, in a quick movement, his hand was behind her neck and he drew her against him, his lips upon her lips, and his cold nose brushing against hers.

She _felt_.

Solas drew away from her, his hand still upon her neck, and he smiled again as he brushed the snow from her hair.

“I am terrible at following your advice,” she whispered.

“As am I,” Solas returned, leaning in to kiss her once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry / not sorry for the absolute MONSTER chapter.


	16. Bloom (NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of this chapter are NSFW.

Though there was still a bitter chill in the mountain air in the mornings before the sun reached high above the tallest peaks, spring had undeniably arrived. All around Skyhold, her people were nesting - the same as the birds who filled the budding trees. They carved out spaces to call their own and, day by day, filled them with the belongings that marked those spaces as homes.

She watched with pride and wonder as her people wasted no time in building something for themselves within the fortress. Those who knew how to cook, cooked. Those who could hunt, hunted. Those who had something to teach the children, taught. Each helped where and how they could, and every day there was a new discovery of what Skyhold provided them - hearths where they could build fires to guard against the cold; a spacious open ground at the edge of the fortress walls that could be tilled and planted; and a large, rounded meeting room that would serve for planning and discussion.

So much of it was new to her, too. How strange it was to find corners where there had been none before, and doorways where there had once been solid walls. Skyhold was a world away from what it had been, and yet parts of it remained precisely as how she remembered them.

She took a room above the courtyard where she’d once founded a modest garden. It was smaller than the Inquisitor’s room had been, yet far more space than she needed for only herself.

And Solas - Solas slept elsewhere.

There had been no discussion of this. Their arrangement, if it could even be called such, was an unspoken one. Some days it felt foolish to her - this pretense of distance after they’d spent weeks at one another’s side. Yet another part of her understood, perhaps even desired, the formality of it. That they had rearranged the time and the space they shared was an acknowledgment that something was different between them. What precisely that difference was …

Well.

That was something she would sort out when the time came.

 

* * *

 

The first time she found him, it was an accident. She wasn’t looking for him. She wasn’t looking for anything, in particular.

Even now, when the light still bloomed red behind the mountains in the distance, Skyhold was already bustling. Most of the elves from the city rose with the sun, accustomed as they were to lives that required it of them. From her window overlooking the hills, she could see that the first group of hunters were already making their way beyond the walls, marking the fresh snow with each footfall.

She wandered down from the balcony outside her room to the courtyard below, where dozens of makeshift tents sheltered the newly-arrived refugees who had been spirited away from Val Royeaux. They would have proper quarters soon enough, once the debris and dust had been cleared away from the outer wings of the fortress. And then, within a day or two, the tents would fill again when Briala and Jonenn returned from their latest trip to the city.

The great fortress’ entryway loomed above the tents, its delicate mosaics and winding spires imposing in a different way than the human’s masonry had once been. Solas’ spell had conjured a near perfect specimen of an Elvhen ruin from the Fade, precisely suited to the expectations of the people who had sought such a refuge. It was indistinguishable from the other temples she had explored in her time - save for one glaring omission.

In this Skyhold, there were no statues. No great owls cast their shadows down upon the courtyard, nor were there faceless archers to stand guard at each of the grand doorways. The mosaics that dotted the walls inside and out depicted not the Creators, but geometric designs and twisting patterns. There were not even any wolves to watch the gates.

Her people _might_ have noticed such an oddity. Briala’s, however, did not.

It had taken her a few days to realize what was missing. She had not yet questioned Solas, but she suspected it must be intentional. Fen’Harel’s fortress would not be filled with images of those he considered idols and false gods, she’d realized.

Lost in thought, she wandered through the rows of tents, giving an absent smile to any faces she recognized from her time at the alienage. Eventually, it was her nose that gave her a direction.

The Great Hall was one of the first places in Skyhold to be given a name and a purpose after they arrived. That purpose could not be further removed from what it had once been, but what need had they of a throne room, after all? Where once Fereldan and Orlesian nobles had feasted on the finest delicacies imported from all over Thedas, now reunited families filled the bunks that lined the long hallway. In the center of the room, a great fire had been built beneath a large hole where a portion of the roof had caved in.

She thought perhaps this was the source of the smell she sought, but she found only a small pot of porridge hanging above the fire. So she pressed on, making her way toward the end of the hall where she had once sat in judgment over anyone who dared defy the might of the Inquisition.

Overall, she thought, this was a much better use of the space.

Yet still the smell of baking bread drew her onward. Bread, in all its wondrous shapes and flavors, had been a very rare luxury for her clan. The ingredients were too difficult to come by and it simply didn’t keep on long journeys. But she’d grown fond of its taste once she started living amongst humans and, even now, she felt her stomach grumble expectantly at the thought of it.

The smell - warm and earthy, with just a touch of something sweet - came from the Undercroft. She turned the corner beside where her throne had once stood and passed down the few steps that would bring her to her quarry.

For a moment, she was surprised that Dagna was not here to greet her, and then for another moment she was left to wonder what would become of the girl if there was no Inquisition to take her in. But she shook the thought away quickly, as she did with all such inconvenient thoughts these days, and instead took in the room’s new appearance.

Of all the places in Skyhold she had explored thus far, perhaps the Undercroft had been subject to the most drastic changes. Ovens had claimed the space that once belonged to forges. These, she was certain, were the source of the smell that had filled the main level of the fortress and spilled out into the courtyard beyond. Above the hearths hung an assortment of fragrant herbs that had been tied together in bunches to dry.

The rest of the Undercroft was filled with all the makings of a well-stocked kitchen.  There were barrels and jute sacks lined neatly along the rough stone wall to one side of the ovens. Some still bore marks of Orlesian merchants - stolen in their flight from Val Royeaux or perhaps in one of Jonenn and Briala’s raids since then. But others lacked these markings and showed none of the scuffs and dents of the first group. These, she knew, had been crafted here in Skyhold.

The far end of the space was still as it had been, open wide to a stunning view of the cliffs in the distance with a sturdy stone rail to guard the edge of the precipice. Great icicles still hung from the ceiling, yet …

_They’re in thaw_ , she realized. Never once had she seen these enormous things lose even a hands-length of their size when she had lived in Skyhold all those years ago.

_Is it warmer now?_ , she suddenly wondered. _Has his spell done that too?_

The icicles were melting quickly, a steady _drip-drip-drip_ echoing through the Undercroft to announce their journey’s end upon the stone floor. Several small wooden tables with clusters of chairs filled this center portion of the room, though she could see that they had been rearranged to avoid the dripping water from above. All the tables were empty at this early hour, save for the one that stood closest to the cavern’s edge.

She heard his laugh before she saw his face.

Solas had never been an early riser. When they’d first ventured out into the Hinterlands she would fall asleep in her tent, watching as a candle still flickered dimly in his, the lone point of light remaining in their camp. In Skyhold, she would often leave him at his desk, knowing he would read and study until long after the moon set, and she would not see him again until the sun had risen above the mountain peaks. Yet there he sat, chuckling heartily with the energy of one who had long since brushed the sleep from his eyes.

Solas’ back was to her, and he faced two women who sat at the table across from him. She recognized one of them from the alienage - the other must have arrived more recently. Both had faces lined with wrinkles, and while the woman from the alienage had silver streaks in her hair, the other woman’s tresses had gone completely white. Both wore long, white aprons that marked them as those who’d volunteered to work in the kitchens. She heard the gentle murmur of Solas’ voice as she approached the three of them, then halted when both women erupted in delighted laughter.

_Sweet talker_ , she thought, rolling her eyes as she stopped to warm her hands above one of the large hearths. Here, finally, she found the bread she’d been searching for. Several loaves were piled high in a basket beside the fire, waiting to be claimed by any who needed them. She tore off an end, pausing for a moment to savor the smell and the crunch of the soft crust, before allowing her gaze to return to Solas.

The two women had wandered away now, back to work at a stove on the opposite side of the room. And Solas - Solas was looking at her, a small smile forming at the corner of his mouth. She lifted an eyebrow at him, pressing her lips together in an effort to prevent the smile she could feel taking form on her own face. It wasn’t as if she had gone looking for him, after all, and his smug grin told her that was precisely what he must be thinking.

He stood and made his way over to her, carrying a steaming mug between his hands, and still wearing that ridiculous smirk upon his face. Her stomach seemed to be tying itself in knots and a flush was slowly creeping up her neck, though she fought both with indignant irritation. If she had to feel this way about him, there was no need to be a damn fool about it.

She drew in a deep breath, pursed her lips until she had made her mouth nothing but a thin line across her face, and clasped her hands behind her back. She tilted her chin up toward Solas as he approached, pushing her weight to the front of her feet to draw herself up to her full height, which - admittedly - was still quite a bit below his.

“Taken an eye to someone a little closer to your own age, have you?” she asked with as much gravity as she could summon. Solas halted in front of her, a bemused frown settling upon his lips. She only just managed to bite back a laugh at the absurdity of his expression as she nodded her head toward the cooks at the opposite side of the Undercroft.

“Ah,” Solas said after casting a brief glance over his shoulder. “Perhaps it is indelicate of me to say so, but I suspect that you may, in fact, have a few years on the women in question.” He placed his mug upon the hearth behind them, then tucked his arms behind his back as he looked down at her, that same little smile reappearing as he did so.

A chuckle escaped her lips before she had a chance to stifle it. And she realized, taking a closer look at the ladies who were casting occasional glances at them and trying to be inconspicuous, that Solas was probably right. Her hair hadn’t lost its color the way theirs had, but she remembered all too well the stiffness in her bones when she rose from her bed in the grey Kirkwall mornings. The feeling that she’d hated in the beginning - that suddenly she could simply do _less_ than before - she had finally made peace with by the time she and Dorian began working on their grand plan.

But here …

She felt the flex in her calves as she held herself steady on the balls of her feet, and the pull in her shoulders that stretched across her back as she held her hands clasped tightly behind her. Youth was a long way gone, still. But she found she had grown accustomed to this version of her body that had regained the strength and agility that had later begun to fade.

“I admit that I am unfamiliar with Dalish notions regarding age,” Solas continued, taking a small step toward her, “but I recall that humans consider it a particularly delicate subject to discuss, and one to be treated with utmost subtlety. So, allow me to clarify.

“You were wise and graceful when we met. At the time, I thought it impossible that you could improve upon either of those characteristics - not because you were incapable of doing so,” Solas explained, “but because, to me, there seemed no want for improvement.”

She swallowed quickly and then remembered she hadn’t taken a breath since he’d started talking. She inhaled sharply, louder than she’d meant to, and clenched her hands tighter behind her. As if in unspoken response to her increased rigidity, Solas unclasped his hands and brought them to rest at his sides, one slender finger tapping a against his thigh at a breakneck pace.

“Yet after I met you again - it is -” Solas broke off, pausing for a moment before he reached over her shoulder and retrieved his mug from the hearth. “We think that a cup can only contain so much,” he said, gesturing to the top of the mug. “And if we add more, the cup will run over and the excess will fall to the ground, wasted and forgotten.

“But perhaps that is not always the case,” he said. “Perhaps, in some instances, our cups simply swell to accommodate the bounty we are given, and we find that there is room for more, after all.”

She frowned at him. “And so - I am a cup in this scenario?” she asked, half serious and half teasing. “And an overfull one at that?”

Solas let out a low chuckle. “No - I am the cup,” he explained, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of his words, and then sighing in a heavy way that made his shoulders fall suddenly. When we spoke again, he was quiet and pensive, and she wondered whether he was speaking more to himself or to her.

“I thought I was as full as I could be,” Solas said. “I believed that I had been filled with … well, with you. And yet, I have come to find that there is room for more, after all.”

She found she could no longer meet his gaze, and so she turned her eyes downward toward the physical cup in question. It was rust-colored, no doubt made from the reddish clay that could be found throughout the foothills nearby, and molded by the hands of a skilled potter whose creations would no longer adorn the tables of Orlesian nobility. She thought of how different this simple clay must be from the materials the potter would have been allowed to use in Val Royeaux. She imagined beautiful vases of porcelain like those she had seen in Vivienne's estate, glazed to an immaculate sheen and adorned with careful painted twirling patterns.

She thought of all this so that she would not have to think of the tremors that rippled through the cream-colored liquid in the cup, nor the way that Solas’ hands trembled as he held it.

“Is that _tea_?” she blurted out, relieved that she’d found a way to redirect the conversation.

Solas practically threw himself upon her bait.

“Certainly not!” he replied with a scoff that made it clear his offense was, in no small part, genuine.

Part of her wished she could be honest with him. Yes, he was hiding behind metaphors but only just, as if peering out from behind a tree as he watched for her reaction. But, still, she was afraid. She feared that distraction and a loss of focus would send her spiraling toward the same doom she’d already faced. And, more than that, she wondered whether her cold spirit could find within it the warmth to love as fearlessly as she once had.

She forced herself to chuckle, holding her hands in front of her for a moment in mock surrender before placing them behind her back once more. “My _sincerest_ apologies! If not tea, what is it, then?” she asked.

Now it was Solas who stared ponderously into his mug, swirling it carefully between his hands before he replied. “It is a concoction the cooks particularly enjoy, and which they have been kind enough to share with me,” he explained. “A blend of milk and spices - spices which are, apparently, very difficult and expensive to obtain in Orlais. Of course, whether that is by nature or by design, I cannot say.” Solas sneered a bit at this and then took a long draught from his drink, as if daring some Orlesians to round the corner and tear it from his hands.

“By design?” she repeated. “I don’t think I follow.”

“It is only conjecture,” Solas said as he lowered his mug again. “But I suspect that these spices are more common than the elves in Val Royeaux were led to believe. After all, the ingredients which are so difficult to find in Orlais are easily found or grown here.”

“You think the Orlesian merchants make these spices rare and expensive on purpose?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” he said with a nod. “Perhaps the spices have been so over-harvested in Orlais that they truly have become uncommon there. Neither possibility would surprise me. But I think, most importantly, it is a drink that is meant to be served to those that Orlais deems _worthy_ of it.”

“I see,” she smiled, finally understanding. “And the Orlesian nobles would be annoyed and outraged to think that such a precious thing is not only being shared with their former servants, but shared freely and abundantly. It’s ... _a small act of rebellion_ ,” she said.

“Just so,” Solas said, smiling at her. “In every cup, we break the rules.” He took another sip as if to punctuate the point. “The cooks tell me that because it is so sweet and such a rare delicacy, the Orlesians call it ‘ _nectar de l’impératrice_.’ ”

“Nectar of … what was that exactly?” she asked. “I never bothered to learn much Orlesian.”

“ _Nectar de l’impératrice_ ,” Solas repeated. “The Empress’ nectar.”

She arched her brow at this and Solas, though she could see he was struggling to maintain his composure, he allowed one corner of his mouth to tip up ever so slightly. A rush of heat raced toward her cheeks as she said, “Surely they must realize how that sounds.”

“Oh, I am certain of it,” Solas agreed with a nod. “In my experience, the Orlesian nobility never fail to seize a chance to make a particularly risqué double entendre.”

“But about the _Empress_?” she asked, somewhat surprised at how scandalized she suddenly felt on behalf of a woman whose people she’d been helping to willfully rebel for the last several weeks.

“All for the better, I would imagine,” Solas shrugged. “The romantic proclivities of those in power are an evergreen subject for gossip and intrigue - as well as innuendo.”

She found herself thinking, not for the first time, of her own brief turn in power and how likely it was that her love life had been widely discussed and speculated about - in Val Royeaux and beyond. She’d been unlucky enough to hear one or two of the songs, and she’d long suspected that Leliana and Vivienne had seen to it that any bards singing them were quickly silenced after the meeting of the Exalted Council.

“I suppose,” she agreed, failing to understand, as she had always failed to understand, Solas’ bizarre fascination with the oddities of the Court. “And so,” she asked, “does it live up to its name?”

At this, his smile crept slowly up his cheeks. He lifted the mug to his lips once more, finishing off whatever was left before he answered.

“I doubt any man could say.”

She felt her jaw drop as she let out a scandalized huff. “And you say the Orlesians are overly fond of innuendo? Perhaps you should look to yourself before you disparage others in that regard,” she chastised him.

“Perhaps,” Solas said with a quick tilt of his head and an unfailing smile that told her he was in no way dissuaded by her words.

“You barely even answered the question.” She could hear the exasperation in her own voice, but she kept her hands clasped rigidly behind her back, intent that if he was going to play this game of words with her, she would at least insist he play by the rules.

“Ah, the question.” He shifted his weight forward in such a way that it seemed he’d taken a step closer to her. She noted it, but was determined not to take a step back in response. “And … what was the question again?” His smirk told her that, of course, he had not forgotten.

“I asked if it was any good,” she said, now shifting her own weight forward as he had. She remembered this part of the game too - an ever-escalating battle of distraction, where they each rushed to make the other … _unsteady_ … before they brought it upon themselves. She felt herself nearing that zenith now, as her chest just barely brushed against his each time she took in a breath. “Now that you’ve finished it off without offering me a taste, the least you do is tell me whether the drink any good,” she said.

“Oh yes, the drink,” Solas replied as if he hadn’t thought of it in ages. She felt him pull away from her slightly and worried that this was not a retreat, but merely a gathering of strength before the next thrust.

“The drink is … quite good. Of that there can be no question. Sweet without being cloying, and with a complex taste,” Solas said with all the gravitas of an Orlesian noble reviewing a master chef’s latest creation. “Though, I must confess,” he continued, suddenly leaning close to her once more so that he was nearly speaking into her ear. “I have tasted something _far_ more delectable not all that long ago.”

An image flashed in her mind, entirely unbidden and yet clear as the sky in winter. Her fingers clenched and tangled in satin sheets. Her flesh bare and cool against the mountain air. Her back arching upward, stomach taught and muscles straining. And the pale crown of Solas’ head, nestled between her thighs.

She sucked in a breath of air as he moved away once more, drawing back so he could see her face. She was certain, and furious, that her cheeks must be a deep pink by now. But she gathered her wits quickly, though she realized she’d clenched her legs together without meaning to and her heart still beat heavy against her breast. _A foolish thing to be undone_ _by, anyway_ , she thought as she stared back at him defiantly. _He might not have meant_ -

“To be clear,” Solas said, as if reading her mind. “It cannot even be measured against the sweetest thing I have tasted. For what is the _nectar de l’impératrice_ when one has tasted the _nectar de l’inquisit_ -”

This time she was ready for him.

She reached out in a quick, smooth motion, placing a single finger upon his lips to silence him before he could finish his thought. Solas’ eyes went wide at this, and she felt him grow rigid beneath her touch.

“I think that’s quite enough innuendo for one morning, don’t you?” she asked with a smile.

Solas merely stared at her in response, his breath quick and warm against her hand. Her gaze lingered on his eyes for a moment, before she allowed it to drop to his mouth. She left her finger there just a little longer than necessary, her touch just a bit firmer than was needed, so that she tugged his lower lip down every so slightly when she finally pulled her hand away. He tried but couldn’t hide the shudder that rushed across his shoulders as she dropped her hand to her side and rolled back on her heels again.

_There_ , she thought. _I win._

She smiled at the blush on his cheeks, which were so deeply red that he must have felt the heat beneath his skin, though Solas seemed to pay them no mind. She resisted, though only barely, the urge to look down and confirm the fruits of her efforts, keeping her eyes steadily locked with his. Silence hung heavy between them, and she wondered if she’d found him, finally, at a loss for words.

Suddenly, the Undercroft echoed with several boisterous voices as a handful of Briala’s people made their way through the door. She turned to watch the commotion as two of their number carried a large elk into the hall, while the others clapped one another on the shoulders in congratulations. Their cheeks were rosy and snow still clung to their fur-lined cloaks, but they were joyful and their spirits warm. They cheered at her and Solas as they picked their way through the Undercroft and toward the cooks at the rear, hoisting the elk a little higher to show off their prize. She cheered them as they passed and saw that Solas, whose steady composure had returned, did the same.

He spoke, all in a rush, the moment the hunters passed by, as if perhaps worried she might test his limits once again.

“I agree,” Solas said. “Perhaps we have had enough excitement for one morning. But still, it is good to see you outside of the Fade. Skyhold is not such a large place that we must see so little of one another.”

She chewed her lip before she answered, uncertain as to whether he was still speaking in double entendres. “True,” she said finally. “But for now, at least, I need to be going. I’m to meet with some of the young mages who’ve joined us. Some were kept in the White Spire but there are others who have never had any instruction whatsoever. Their parents were hiding them or they were hiding themselves - one way or another, they’ve never had a chance to learn or control their abilities.”

“An admirable use of your talents,” Solas said with a nod.

She shrugged. “We’re all doing our part, I suppose.”

“Then I shall not keep you from your duties any longer, _hahren_.”

She could see plainly the laughter in his lips as she rolled her eyes at him. “And now you’ve gone too far,” she told him with feigned offense. “I must be an old woman indeed if _you_ think to call me ‘elder.’”

In truth, a part of her longed to stay, to lose herself in the familiar ebb and flow of their banter, to test her wits against his, exalting in the moments when she watched his cool self-command falter as he grew flustered in her hands.

But, alas, he was right. Duty called.

They said their brief goodbyes and she left him where she’d found him. And as she walked through the doorway into Skyhold’s Great Hall, she heard the happy voices of the hunters behind her punctuated by the steady _drip, drip, drip_ of the mighty icicles succumbing to the temptation of spring.

 

* * *

 

The next time she found him, she sought him out.

Despite his invitation, she had not seen him in Skyhold again in the weeks that had passed since she’d followed her nose to the Undercroft. But every night, she found him waiting for her as soon as her eyes closed.

They were careful in the Fade. Always at opposite sides of the rotunda, never daring to linger too close for too long and risk the sort of spark that might attract unwanted attentions. Some nights she merely waited for dawn as she reclined on the sofa, drifting into something like sleep as she watched him paint.

She could not claim to know Solas perfectly. There had always been too many secrets for that. Yet she knew more about him than most, she suspected, and she felt quite certain that Solas was a creature of habit. And so when she felt ready to find him once more, there was little question where she should go.

She closed the heavy wooden door behind her quietly, uncertain whether the rotunda was in use. From where she had entered on the second level, she was unable to see whether anyone was using the space below. Briala and Jonenn often held meetings here to discuss their ever-expanding plans. As in her dreams, the polished war table was kept here, centered in the lowest level, and littered with the various tokens that showed the locations of Celene’s and Gaspard’s forces, according to the vast network of spies and agents who still worked under Briala’s careful direction.

But the voices she heard now were not those of Briala and Jonenn.

“What is this place we are going to, Felassan?” Solas was clearly agitated, as he seemed to be more often than not when he spoke to Felassan lately. She hung back near the door, not wanting to risk being noticed if she approached the railing.

“It is a temple … of sorts,” she heard Felassan respond, followed by an annoyed scoff from Solas. For a moment, she wondered whether she should give them their privacy, but she quickly shook the thought away. She needed to know what they knew.

“A temple,” Solas repeated. She could hear the steady footfalls that told her he was pacing the room. “And yet not one that stood during the time of our People.”

“But, of course, our People are not the only ones who built temples.” She imagined Felassan smirking now.

“Fine,” Solas snarled back. “Then who built it? And what is its purpose? And how did my focus come to be there?”

“Ah, these are all excellent questions which will, I’m certain, become much clearer when we visit the place in person.”

“I feel quite confident that seeing this temple in person will offer me no clarity whatsoever,” Solas said with the same certainty that she felt.

She was surprised to hear that Felassan was so unwilling to tell even Solas precisely what awaited them at Solassan. If he was so desperately demanding these answers from Felassan, then perhaps Solas _had_ told her the truth when he claimed not to know of the temple’s origins or purpose.

The Inquisition had visited the temple in the sweltering heat of the late summer, and once they had finally managed to chase out the Venatori, open all the doors, and clear the place of demons, there’d been little to show for their efforts. It was nothing more than an old cave with some ornate decorations carved into the hallways and doors. It reeked of age and dust, and other smells she didn’t want to place. They had found a few inscriptions carved here and there. Solas had hurried to offer translations at the time, but there were words he had omitted, claiming their meaning was lost or the text was illegible. Even at the time, something had told her he’d been holding back, but she had been too trusting then to confront him.

Below her, she could hear the argument escalating, with Felassan condescendingly encouraging patience, and Solas becoming increasingly irritated with his evasion.

“If you will not plainly answer even the simplest of questions-”

“You do not understand what you’re asking for, _lethallin_ ,” Felassan shot back. “There is nothing simple I can tell you about that place. All you need know is that the orb was there once and maybe, if we are far luckier than we have any right to be, it might still be there.”

“Luck?” Solas said with disgust. “You expect to rely on luck to solve this?”

“Perhaps you have forgotten how we came to be where we are,” Felassan replied, his voice suddenly low, edged, and missing any trace of its usual mirth. “ _You_ had a plan. And _you_ changed your mind. I only followed your orders.”

“Are you saying that you would rather I not have changed my mind?” Solas demanded. “Did you want to have the blood of these people on your hands? Is _that_ what you would have preferred?”

There was a long silence between them. She held her breath as she waited for Felassan to answer.

“Solas,” he said, finally. “If this world burns it is no one’s fault but yours. I was ready to die to save them. And I still would. By the gods, Solas,” he said, his voice thick with pity now. “I do not understand why you told me to put the orb into that _shemlen_ abomination’s hands if _this_ was what you planned to do. And now, here is history repeating itself. Another batch of rebels too young and too naive to understand the magnitude of what’s at stake.

“And surely, you must know by now, Solas. They’re real. As real as we ever were. No matter what has been taken from them. I _tried_ to tell you. I tried to _show_ you while you slept. It wasn’t like we expected. It is ... so much more. And if we lose this - if _you_ lose whatever it is you’ve found here - you may lay the blame at your own feet and no one else’s.”

The rotunda’s walls echoed with the voices of the people passing beneath its windows, and with the words of Felassan’s curse. She waited, huddled in the shadow of the archway, for Solas to respond. But after a pause that felt like it went on for a lifetime, she heard footsteps below, departing from the room in an angry staccato. Only then did she move closer to the wooden banister and chance a look downward.

Solas, alone now, stared up at her. His cheeks were flushed with fury, his lips downturned to a scowl. But even as her eyes met his, she saw the anger begin to fade from his face, and found only a calm stillness where it had been.

“I - I’m-” she began, thinking to apologize.

“Did you hear all of it?” Solas asked. She expected some annoyance in his voice. After all, she had just been caught eavesdropping. But any hint of anger was now gone.

“Enough,” she said.

He sighed and then nodded his head quickly. “It for the best. You know as much about that place as I do now. And I am certain Felassan knows considerably more than either of us.”

She placed her hands on the railing, leaning forward slightly as she spoke. “Why won’t he tell you?”

“I wish I knew,” Solas said with a defeated shrug. “Truly, I have not even a guess as to his motives.”

It frightened her to hear him say so. Felassan, for as pleasant as he could be when the mood struck him, was largely a mystery to her. She could see that Briala trusted him well enough, but even Briala seemed confused about his reasons for helping her people. Though he was clearly short-tempered and enjoyed tormenting Solas, she couldn’t imagine that Felassan would be any happier about the focus falling into Corypheous’ hands.

“You don’t think he would ever -” she began, hesitantly.

“What, betray me?” Solas finished for her. He scoffed again. “What bond is there to betray? He no longer serves me. He owes me nothing. I am nothing to him now. And, besides, if Felassan were plotting against me, he would not be such an insufferable ass to my face.”

She wasn’t certain whether it was bitterness or sadness she heard in Solas’ tone as she shook her head at him, furrowing her brow in confusion. “But he’s your friend. Isn’t he? You called him your brother.”

“Brother _at arms_ ,” he quickly corrected, turning his back to her and taking a step toward the war table. “I do not know what Felassan is to me now.”

She took the moment to make her way to the narrow stairwell that led to the room below, hurrying down the steps and then crossing to stand on the opposite side of the table from Solas. He looked up at her for a moment as she approached before allowing his gaze to return to the collection of oval stones that covered the table’s polished surface. Absently, he ran his fingers across one of the stones before picking it up and turning it over in his hand.

“Sometimes it seems to me that Felassan is someone I _used_ to know,” Solas said, his fingertip tracing along the rune that had been engraved upon the stone’s surface. “Like a memory from another life. And perhaps that is precisely what he is. But there is so much now I cannot tell him and so much, I am certain, he cannot tell me. I fear we have walked too long apart to know how to walk together once more.”

“Do you trust him?” she asked, carefully. Solas smiled, turning the stone back and forth, from one hand to another.

“I trust that his goals are not so different from mine. I believe that he wants to find the orb. But there is something in him that I did not see before. There is an anger - but more than that. I feel in him a deep and abiding rage. It is unlike him. And it is clear that I am the cause of it.” He set the stone down on the table once more, sliding it across the table’s surface to a spot where a river’s mouth was painted on to the wood.

“I do not know the _specific_ cause of his anger, I should say,” Solas continued. “But it should not surprise you, having heard the stories that your people inherited from mine, that I was not looked upon fondly once the Evanuris were locked away.

“Whatever anger Felassan holds in his heart for me, I have no doubt that I am deserving of it,” he said simply, sinking down into the chair beside the table. “I find I am no longer surprised to discover new ways in which I have failed the people who depended upon me the most.”

There it was again. The self pity for which she couldn’t blame him, but which she’d come to despise more than anything. She knew what it was to find one’s actions unforgivable. She had no way to coax that feeling from him without saying disingenuous things. But, still, she hated to see him mired in this swamp of doubt and misery, especially when he didn’t even know why he was there.

She watched him from the far side of the war table, as she had so many times in the Fade. It was common for them to talk like this in their dreams, with a giant, ancient slab of wood between them. She would sit on one side while he paced at the other and told her more and more of what had transpired during the rebellion against the Evanuris. The table served as a convenient barrier and a constant reminder that caution and - above all else - distance were necessary between them.

But they were not in the Fade now.

She rounded the table in a few short steps. Her arms were around him in a heartbeat. She leaned over and embraced him with everything she had, hoping it might be enough to will the melancholy away - however temporarily. She could feel the shock in his rigid shoulders, but it melted quickly as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down into his lap. She let out a small cry of surprise as her hips twisted and her feet came off the ground, but she managed to land, however clumsily, with her backside upon his thigh and her legs between his. Her back shouted in protest at the too-sudden movement, and she shifted her weight forward quickly so her feet could touch the floor once again.

“What in the world has gotten into you?” she asked incredulously. Such an overt and physical display of affection was unlike him - unlike _them_. They had always been discreet and private while she was the Inquisitor. But Solas merely smiled sheepishly at her as he brought his arm around her waist and grabbed her hip to steady her.

“It has been too long since I saw you last.”

And it was true. In this fortress filled with so many new faces each day, it could be difficult to find the one that mattered most to her. It had been easy not to see him, not to seek him out amid the bustle of the day-to-day and the call of the duties she’d taken on. It was easy to tell herself that she’d find him while she slept.

It had been harder to convince herself, however, that dreams were enough.

She pressed her head against his shoulder, and allowed a moment to merely breathe in the memory of him, of how they had been when she could believe that the future was theirs to claim. His clothes were musty with the scent of old parchment and dust, and she longed to drag him from this place out into the sunshine that lay just beyond the door.

There were so many people - so much _life_ \- outside of this dark rotunda that harbored old ghosts and painful memories. Though the walls were now absent of Solas’ murals, she could see their echoes when she stood in this room, forcing her mind back to the thought of foregone misdeeds and irrevocable mistakes. She knew the draw of it, that temptation to think back on the things which haunted one most, and she knew it must be even greater for him.

“You must forgive yourself, Solas,” she found herself murmuring into his chest.

He scoffed a little but his grip on her tightened. “I have always believed that forgiveness requires atonement. One must right a wrong to be forgiven for it. Until I have found a way to mend what I have broken, I choose to carry this guilt with me.”

She had not expected him to agree, of course. But hearing that he was as resolved as ever to “fix” what he had done brought a chill to her heart, as if the grey clouds of winter had blocked out the sun once more.

She moved as if to stand up, but he stopped her, catching her hand in his own just as brought it down from around his shoulders. “Please,” he said softly. He drew her hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss on the inside of her wrist that she felt in her arms and her chest and her belly.

“Let us talk of this no more for the moment. I do not wish to waste what little time we have speaking of such unpleasant things. It has been so long since I saw you last,” he said again.

She wanted to protest, to argue with him, to tell him to give up this foolish crusade to make amends to people who had died ages ago. But how could she deny him when he was this close, when she could still feel his kiss upon her skin, when he held her like this?

“You saw me only last night,” she said, smiling at him. “And in this very place.”

“Yet not like this,” Solas countered. “The Fade may be capable of many elaborate deceptions. But it cannot convince me that you are real and before me when you are not.”

With a wide grin, she slid her hand down from his shoulder and poked him hard in his chest. Solas let out a small grunt of disapproval.

“And what was that for, may I ask?”

“To prove I am no demon sent to tempt you,” she answered plainly.

“And yet,” Solas said, crooking an eyebrow at her. “The temptation remains, all the same.”

There was something that sang of mischief in his eyes. It was infectious and irresistible, and it told her he had found at least a moment’s respite from his wallowing. And, perhaps, she had as well. The world had been cruel to them, as they had each been cruel to the world. For this brief moment, she thought, she would abandon any question as to whether they deserved happiness and, instead, seize it for herself.

She wasn’t certain which of them moved first. All she knew was that, in an instant, she found herself with her mouth against his and her hands on either side of his face. She allowed herself to think, for one more moment, of how much she wished she could chase the sadness from his heart and from her own, but such thoughts were pushed from her mind as he pulled her tight against him. She opened her mouth to his and, suddenly, there was no more room for worry.

Solas leaned back with a shuddering sigh when she swept a finger across his earlobe, and she grabbed at his neck to bring him down to her once again. He was only too happy to oblige, tracing kisses along her lips and neck until he reached her collarbone. There, he lingered, the heat of his breath against her skin a shock in the damp coldness of the stone rotunda. She breathed hard against his neck, pressing a kiss to his jaw whenever she could find the air in her lungs to spare.

“I certainly hope we aren’t in the Fade now,” she whispered into his ear. Solas chuckled against her neck in reply.

“It is the smallest details the Fade most often misses,” he said, his hand suddenly above her heart as he worked at the ties that bound the neck of her dress. “The feel of the cloth between one’s fingers. The softness of the skin.”

With the laces now undone, he was free to slide his hand across her shoulder and push the dress down her arm. She felt it bunch lazily near her elbow, and the sudden presence of goose bumps as the air touched her bare skin. But Solas ran his hand over her shoulder and down her arm, the warmth of his touch chasing the chill away. When he reached her elbow he curved his hand inward, his fingertips the ghost of a touch across the fabric that still covered her breast. She shuddered, though this time the cold was not the cause of it.

His fingers, nimble and long, curled around the curve of her flesh, sinking beneath her dress. She leaned into him, her mouth open in a moan which he swallowed up as he renewed their kiss. She lost herself in the taste of him, in the feel of his tongue against her own, and in the way he clutched her hip as if he feared she might be torn away from him at any moment. She gasped softly as his hand worked across her breast, his fingers teasing across the bud until she felt it grow firm beneath his touch.

Solas leaned over, pressing his lips to her shoulder and dallying there for what felt like an eternity as she grew increasingly aware of the heat that had formed in her belly and grown to an ache between her legs. He cupped her breast and laid greedy kisses upon her chest until she thought she could stand it no longer. Finally, he dipped his hand low to press his fingers down her stomach. She closed her eyes, tried her best to _just, breathe_ , even as she felt him grow harder beneath her thigh.

She didn’t think to stop him until he’d traced her nipple with the tip of his tongue, and couldn’t bring herself say the words until his hand was below her waist.

“Solas,” she said, and then realized, as he slid his hand between her legs, that it sounded like a plea to continue rather than to stop. “Solas,” she said again, more firmly this time. “Wait.”

She felt him retreat from her immediately, his hands hurrying back to grip the sides of the chair as she stood quickly and pulled her dress back up over her chest and shoulder in a swift motion.

“ _Ir abelas_ -” he rushed to apologize, but she cut him off.

“No, please. You did nothing wrong. Nothing I did not want you to do. But this?” she said, looking up at the railings and rafters above them. “It isn’t the time, or the place. It’s my fault. I - I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have - I’m sorry,” she finally managed.

It was true _enough_. She has a woman, grown and wise - or wiser than she had been before, at least. If she wanted to bed him, she would do so in a bed and not rutting against him in a place where anyone might interrupt them at any moment.

But - as she’d learned so well from him - one could tell some of the truth without telling all of it.

She forced herself to look at him, worried she would see hurt or rejection or anger in his face. But instead she saw only the small, reassuring smile that told her he understood and would honor whatever decision she made in this regard.

Somehow, that only made it worse.

She wanted to explain herself, but what words could she use to tell him why? She had been like a dead thing all these long months with him, her feelings hidden beneath the frozen ground and the unforgiving snow. And now, after the interminable winter, she was a new growth pushing through the moss and the mud, aching to feel the sun upon her face. Each frosty morning was a trial she must overcome, and each cloudy day a heartbreak she could hardly bear. How could she tell him how delicate it all was, when even the idea of saying so made her want to withdraw into the cold once more?

It had been difficult for her even without this - without the tangled confusion of bodies and desire. She wanted more than anything to confess her love to him, to tell him the truth of it. But she felt with a certainty she could not understand that, somehow, doing so would invite disaster. If he touched her like this - if she touched him - how much harder would it be to keep the words inside of her? How long could she hold back the swell of _ar lath mas_ that threatened to spill out of her with every breath?

“I should go,” was all she said.

“Of course,” Solas agreed, smoothing the wrinkles that had bunched his tunic. To his credit, his tone was even and he’d managed to swallow all but the faintest hint of disappointment. She heard it anyway, just as she had seen that the business with the tunic was a convenient way that he could place his hands over his lap.

The truth was harder than either of them cared to admit.

“I must return to my duties as well,” he said with a glance over at the table. “Briala has tasked me with mapping the locations of the Eluvians. I imagine I only have a few dozen, or perhaps hundred, more to identify.”

It was a joke, she told herself, and she let out a short laugh that sounded too high as she quickly tied the laces of her dress. She was grateful to him for offering this explanation of why she needed to leave. But she saw him frowning, when he thought she’d turned away, and wondered why he seemed to be fighting the urge to say something more. She turned toward the door that would lead back to the hall.

“Wait,” Solas said. “A moment, please.”

The look he gave her when she glanced back over her shoulder was one she had not seen in many years. It was naked in its hunger and magnetic in its certainty. Like a ship at the edge of a maelstrom, she felt herself upon the precipice, one thought away from sailing free or sinking down with him. She saw his shoulders tense and his weight shift forward, and for one brief moment she thought he would leap to his feet and come for her again.

And how she wished he would.

But she saw instead Solas tighten his grip on the arms of his chair, sliding himself back against it even as he gritted his teeth. He’d managed to restrain himself, yet she stood before him desperate to shed this illusion of control and let him take her, here and now.

She remained still, the drumming of his fingers upon the chair a constant reminder that his hands should be on her instead.

When he spoke, his voice was too thick.

“Tell me I will see you again soon - before another week passes. I cannot bear this … distance.”

“I - I will do my best,” she promised.

Solas exhaled softly, looking down at his knees. “Your best is far too good for me, I fear. But I shall think of nothing else until I see you once more.”

She hurried back through the Great Hall and out to the courtyard where she was greeted by a warm and lazy breeze. Her head was still spinning with his touch and she leaned against the fortress wall to steady herself, needing the rough scrape of the stone beneath her hands to chase away the soft thoughts of his hands and mouth upon her. She breathed quickly, in and out, again and again as she fought to calm the aching need she felt still coursing through her body.

She looked down at her feet to settle herself.

Bursting up through the ground below her, were the buds of spring -  once hardened vines that had coiled their way into the mortar of Skyhold’s walls, now alive and verdant once more.

“I will do my best,” she whispered to the vines, wishing she could be as brave as they.

 

* * *

 

But she didn’t find him the next day, or the one after that.

Her heart ached with his absence, though he filled her nights with his presence and she filled her days with thoughts of him. On her best days, she wondered if she’d done the right thing. On her worst days, she cursed herself for stopping him when she had.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t wanted to find Solas, but this Skyhold was a new world, and one that demanded of her time in a new way. For the first time in a long while she found herself beholden to other people. She was expected to be certain places at certain times and to offer her counsel when it was asked.

Briala and Jonenn had summoned her - _summoned! her!_ \- when they were having a dispute about whether they should send envoys to some of the Dalish clans, inviting them to visit Skyhold. Jonenn was dead set on the idea, while Briala thought it was pointless. Regardless, she’d been asked to provide a list of the clans she knew - names of their Keepers, where they might have set up camp at this time of year, how best to approach them.

“It’s a waste of time and resources,” Briala had told Jonenn. “They’re not going to trek across the world just to see some abandoned Elvhen castle.”

“But it’s my time and my resources to waste,” Jonenn had insisted. He’d been doing that more often lately - _insisting_. She thought she saw a smirk of approval flash across Briala’s face, but it passed quickly and it was always too difficult to read her to know for sure.

It hardly mattered, but she agreed with Briala. The Dalish might be curious about a place like this, but they would not abandon their camps to come see it. Perhaps one or two free-thinking souls might make a pilgrimage here to see what all the fuss was about, but it would not be the sort of turnout Jonenn seemed to expect.  

Fortunately, no one asked her.

It was a surprisingly peaceful thing, relinquishing control, and something she’d had little experience with. While it was true that she’d laid down the mantle of the Inquisitor after the Exalted Council, the reality was somewhat different. She remained at the lead of _something_ , perhaps not the Inquisition in name or resources, yet Cassandra and Leliana remained by her side all the same. Their goals shifted, become more personal, and somehow it was always her that the others looked to for orders. It wasn’t their fault; it was simply easier that way. Old habits were hard to break, and they were used to deferring to her opinion as the final one. But it was a burden - a heavy weight that she carried on stooping shoulders - and now it was gone.

Only a day later she passed Briala in the courtyard and was told, “We leave for the temple tomorrow.” She questioned first the _we_ (a raised eyebrow and condescending tone - “I thought you’d be happy to have someone to talk to while those two charlatans fight with each other”) and then the _tomorrow_ (a look of surprise, quickly masked - “Solas has finally finished mapping the Eluvians and found one that will place us as near as we can get to this temple”).

They left in the evening of the next day, Briala in the lead and Felassan close behind her as they stepped through the Eluvian that had brought them to Skyhold when they fled Orlais. She lingered for a moment with Solas, and they turned back for one last view of the fortress’ walls.

Even from this distance, she could see the activity within. Small plumes of smoke rose high into the night air, and torches illuminated the entryway to the Great Hall where people came and went as they joined together for dinner or conversation. It was _full_ of life in a way she’d never seen it before.

“I am sorry that you must leave it again,” Solas said from where he stood beside her.

She chuckled a little, then reached out from below her traveling cloak and took his hand. “Don’t be,” she said. “I knew it was only temporary.”

“Still,” he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze, “it can be difficult to leave any home, however temporary it was.”

She shook her head as she looked up at him. “Skyhold is not a home.”

Solas peered down at her, tilting his head in a question.

“Well,” she said, “I am Dalish, after all. For us, a home is not a fortress, or a tree with pretty ribbons, or even an aravel. A home is whatever matters enough to us that we carry it with us, always. And everything that matters, I carry with me now.”

Hard as it was, she forced herself to hold his gaze while she said it. It wasn’t all of the truth. But it was some of it.

Solas lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss upon her knuckles.

“My only regret,” she continued, “is that I won’t see it bloom. It was never springtime in Skyhold when we here before. It was always winter. I would’ve liked to see the flowers, when they were ready.”

“There is still time,” Solas assured her.

“I hope so,” she said.


End file.
